


Signed With A Glitter Gel Pen

by Kitkatkimble



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Comedy, F/F, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, One Shot Collection, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-05-15 03:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5769382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitkatkimble/pseuds/Kitkatkimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is, in theory, very easy to be a hot rich girl. It is also easy to be an SI:7 Agent, or so the dime novels say, because it's all adventures and daring escapades and beautiful women. </p><p>Pity neither of those ever seem to ring true for Daniyah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Westfall Man Gets Mad, Stormwind Ignores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elyon tries to figure out where he stands, and Daniyah is predictably self-centred.

Elyon Meir has no chill.

He doesn’t. He knows this, because he grew up in Westfall, which doesn’t give many opportunities to develop as anything but an increasingly liberal socialist. He hates the system, any system; his mother was part of the Stonemason’s Guild, his father homeless for many years thanks to Stormwind’s economic collapse. Privilege is not something he has. He’s too common, too coarse, too disabled, too seditious.

And then he met a little six year old who wore earrings and bangles of jingling metal, who took his hand and chattered away as if he was an equal, or even someone higher.

Daniyah is everything he hates, and at the same time, she embodies everything he adores.

He worries, a lot. He does his best to help, but in Westfall resources are low, and the only reason he still has a home is because the community recognises that he can do more with one. He contributes, but it’s not enough.

It’s never enough.

So when Daniyah offers him a chance to come to Stormwind, to attack the problem at the source, it’s easy enough to agree.

He rides on a weathered old donkey that one of the farmers gave him. Horses are rare in Westfall. Too expensive to take care of, and even those that do get kept, suffer the same fate as Old Blanchy. The Furlbrows hadn’t deserved that, he thinks, and scowls to himself.

“Are you Elyon Meir?” asks a voice he dimly recognises.

“Yeah,” he says, and tilts his head in the general direction of the speaker.

“I’m escorting you.”

His old donkey begins to move, and he realises the speaker must be leading him.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Johari,” they say. “Zuri Johari.”

Nice name. Elyon scrounges the depths of his memory. He’s always been good with languages, and it takes a moment before he recognises it. _Beautiful jewel_. Cute.

“We got you a place in Old Town,” they say. Their voice is dull. Flat. Like they couldn’t care less about anything, really, and Elyon can’t quite wrap his head around that. Well, he can, but it goes against everything he is – he cares, often too much to handle.

“Thanks.” He shifts. “I’m paying the rent.”

“No.” A slight tug on the reins, and he relinquishes them, the crumbling leather falling from his hands with ease. Zuri’s got a fair amount of latent strength, then. Probably a warrior, like him. Or unlike, really, since he’s pretty shit.

“Uh, yeah, I am.”

“With what.”

It’s not a question.

The trip begins noisy and crowded. People yelling and laughing and fighting and chattering, in sixty different languages and with more fervour than Elyon’s ever heard from anyone other than himself. This, then, is the Trade District.

He’s a little afraid of it, honestly, and takes solace in the fact that he’s up on a donkey and Zuri seems content to lead him.

“Canal,” says Zuri, and Elyon can hear the sound of water hitting stone. Yes, he knows this is a canal. Thanks for pointing out the obvious. He’s blind, not deaf. (They mean well. Everyone always means well. It’s rather frustrating, because often they don’t need to be the ones worrying – trust him, he’s got the worrying covered.)

He listens carefully, wishing he could walk and map the streets in his head. But even he knows that it’s not a good idea, just yet, and he’s not even got the right boots on. He needs his usual ones, thin and worn, so that he knows to count the cobblestones and map their shape, their feeling. It’s what he did in Westfall, except there he mapped dirt textures.

It gets quieter, all of a sudden. They must be in Old Town. He can hear the creak of a well, and just off in the distance, what sounds like a training ground.

“Here.”

They turn a corner, and he slides down from the donkey.

The door is loud on its hinges, and he smiles, because that means he knows when someone enters. The floorboards creak, the lantern is on a chain that rattles as it swings lightly in the breeze coming from somewhere above. He maps his way around with his fingertips, memorising the layout. It’s clean. Neat. Dusty and ancient and worn out, but simple.

It’s perfect.

“Dan says you work as a healer.”

“Yeah.” He finds the bed, and gently sits down. It’s softer than it should be. Daniyah bought him a mattress. He resolves to give it away at the first opportunity. “Is there – ”

“Miss Alassra will help you with supplies.” The floorboards creak; Zuri shifts. “Local herbs are cheap, foreign are discounted for you. She will send people your way.”

“Is Daniyah – ”

“Yes.” A pause. “I guarantee you whatever your question is, the answer is yes.”

He sighs, and pinches his brow. He wants to swear, but he’s trying not to sound too common. Zuri sounds like they’re from Darkshire, judging by their accent. They probably don’t think much of him.

“Is it true you’re a warrior?” they blurt out suddenly. Well, it’s not exactly blurting, but it’s said a little bit faster than the slow drawl Elyon was just getting used to.

He looks up, eyebrows rising. “Yeah. Why?”

“Why are you healing, then?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

A long silence. Maybe that doesn’t process very well. He doesn’t really blame them, because he doesn’t look like a warrior, and he doesn’t have any magical prowess to help him heal. He’s basically immune, actually. It’s got its perks.

“How do you fight?”

“I don’t.” He nods outside to where his donkey is patiently waiting. There’s a large tower shield hanging off one of the saddlebags. “I hide behind that thing and let people wail on me.”

Another silence. Elyon can hear Zuri’s impression of him sinking even further. He’s not surprised.

“Neat.”

He frowns, but they’re moving, floorboards creaking and door squealing on its hinges. There’s a little snicker from his donkey, and then the door is moving again, and there’s a thud.

“Where do you want these?”

Zuri must be helping with his bags. He gestures to the bed. “I’ll organise them later. I’ll get the rest, it’s okay.”

“What rest?” There’s a creak of bedsprings, then a depression next to him. “That’s it.”

“The fuck?” He twists, and counts the bags, fingers running over coarse wool. There’s seven there, the right number, and he even feels the cold metal of his shield. “How’d – ”

Zuri makes a funny clicking noise, then he feels a large hand take his own, and place it on skin. Wide. Heavily muscled. Shit, that’s Zuri’s bicep? This person is _ripped._

“Not all mages are squishy.”

“You’re a _mage?_  What the shit?”

A snort. Zuri sits next to him, and doesn’t seem to mind him exploring their face. Not very facially expressive – that’s probably a good thing? At least he’s not missing much. “Battlemage.”

“Shit.”

“Mhmm.” Their mouth twitches. “Appearances are deceptive.”

He smiles. They are indeed. Zuri the battlemage, Daniyah the monk, Elyon the warrior. The irony does not escape him.

Over the next month, he begins to get more and more visitors. Miss Alassra, a tired but kind priestess, sends people his way more and more. Then word of mouth spreads, and he finds himself overwhelmingly busy. It’s not so bad – often people bring herbs as payment, which he appreciates because it means that when he uses them to help other people, he knows it’s what they were intended for.

Miss Alassra – for some reason, the ‘Miss’ is important – ends up letting him treat her as something akin to a confessor. She tells him that that’s her job. He doesn’t believe her, but accepts it, because the Light chose her and not him and therefore there’s something special about her that he doesn’t know about. It’s hard to think of it in such pragmatic, clinical terms, but he manages.

Sometimes the odds aren’t in your favour and there is nothing you can do but try to even them for other people.

Daniyah stops by once or twice a week. He wonders why, because she clearly doesn’t intend to actually help anyone; the irony is back again.

“Bandages, where the fuck are my bandages?”

A roll gets placed in his hand, and he returns to stitching up some kid’s wound. She ran into an adventurer and got scraped accidentally by an unsheathed blade. This is why Elyon hates adventurers in general, and the guard for letting him wander around without a sheath, and just about everything.

It doesn’t help that the girl’s a street kid. He sighs and ruffles her hair as she grabs at his sleeve.

“Hey, doll,” says Daniyah. He hadn’t heard the door creak. “Busy?”

“Yes,” he says, rearranging his things so that they’re back where they should be. “What d’you want? Are you hurt?”

There’s a bland silence, and he realises his mistake, and blushes furiously. She's a Mistweaver, get it together, Meir.

Daniyah laughs, and tugs at his ponytail. “I’m fine, don’t be ridiculous. I do hear, however, that there’s an awful riot going on down in the Trade Quarter. Something about anti-war sentiment. You wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with that, would you?”

Maybe.

“No.”

She hums, and Elyon turns to help his next patient.

Guards sometimes visit him, when the medic over in the barracks is overworked or inexplicably missing. He helps them, because that’s what he does, and he begins to learn more about Stormwind City. He learns about the other quarters, about barracks gossip, about SI:7, about Stormwind Keep, about Ol’ Emma who bakes pies and threatens muggers. The guards become people, as opposed to faceless armour.

He’s still angry. He’s still worried. But now it’s more refined, more purposeful.

He wonders if Daniyah realised that this would happen. She does have the rare flash of insight.

“So,” she says one afternoon, when Elyon’s taking a short break and eating a sandwich. “Your friend Mister John Smith. He’s not suspicious at all.”

Elyon shrugs. Smith – an obviously fake name but he’s not fussed – is helping him organise relief efforts for the startlingly large number of poor people in Stormwind. It’s not like there’s a huge shortage of resources, just that it’s all being directed to the wrong people.

He’s certainly not going to bring it up with Daniyah, though, since she’s a part of the ‘wrong people’.

“He helps.”

“I’m sure he does.” The click of a compact and the smell of powder. “It just so happens that he’s been arrested multiple times for rioting and sedition.”

“Weird.”

“Hmm.” Daniyah whistles something, and Elyon doesn’t know a lot about music but it sounds completely off key. “Just thought you should know.”

He wrings his hands, and stuffs the last bite of the sandwich into his mouth. She kisses him on both cheeks, tells him he ‘really must come down and say hello, it’s high time’ and then swaggers out. He knows this because there’s a certain rhythm to the floorboards when she walks that indicates she is most definitely swinging her hips. He’s pretty sure it’s for his benefit; so that he knows it’s her.

As he said. Rare flashes of insight.

Zuri is a bit more of a wild card. He doesn’t understand them, doesn’t pretend to. They stop by occasionally with a burn, because for some reason Daniyah and her talents aren’t always at their disposal. Elyon treats it, and Zuri leaves something in the donation jar, and they disappear off again.

It’s weird. Elyon doesn’t know what to make of them and relies on Daniyah to translate whenever they’re together as a group.

But, overall, Elyon is… well, he wouldn’t say happy, but he feels like he’s getting somewhere. Making progress. Helping people. Doing things that no one else is doing, that no one else wants to do, judging by what Smith and Miss Alassra and his street kids are telling him.

Then everything all goes wrong.

It’s mid-afternoon. The sky is gloomy and grey, and everything is deathly quiet except for the sound of hooves on cobblestones. He goes out, because it’s days like these that have the fewest people on the streets.

He’s just crossing the canal (smooth stones, worn from use) when he hears the beginnings of a commotion in the Trade Quarter. He knows it’s a bad idea, a terrible idea frankly, but his legs are already moving faster and his grip is tight on his satchel.

He recognises John Smith’s voice, because that’s what he does. He doesn’t recognise the tone. It’s pure, unadulterated vitriol, nothing but hate and fire and rage with no direction.

Someone let Smith up on a soapbox.

“Do you really think the rich care about anything other than themselves?” Smith is saying. “Those tithes to the church – that’s not for us. That’s not for the poor. That’s to gild the cathedral in gold. When has the Light ever done anything for us? Abandon it, it’s nothing but an establishment of hatred used to convince us that what it preaches is right, is good, is more than just a façade in front of corruption and classism – ”

Elyon pushes his way to the front of the crowd. He’s wearing his glasses, and they signal something in the people around him, and whatever generous spark remains causes them to move out of the way.

“You do not want to be here,” says a monotone voice in his ear. He jerks, not having heard Zuri’s footsteps.

“I do,” he says, because he knows exactly what he wants and he’s never been less certain than now. “Fuck off.”

Zuri, being a contrary bastard, does not fuck off. They intimidate people out of the way until Elyon can hear Smith just in front of him.

He kicks out with a foot.

Light, Smith is on a literal soapbox. He hears Zuri snort next to him.

“What the shit are you doing?” he demands. He hears Smith stop, and falter, before the sound of boot heels hitting stone clacks in his ears.

“I’m preaching,” Smith says.

“How the hell is that preaching?”

“Spreading the word to the masses.”

“There were a lot of words there, and none of them were holy.” He grapples for sentences. “The Light doesn’t hate rich people. The Light doesn’t hate anyone. That’s kind of the point.”

“Actually - ”

“No. Shut up. Go away and stop corrupting peoples’ faith like this. It’s wrong.”

“Those fat pigs sitting on their throne of gold are wrong,” Smith says, and he sounds like a snake. Elyon steps forward. Zuri shifts beside him. “Meir, we’ve talked about this. There are – ”

“I told you to shut up.”

He grips the strap of his satchel tighter and raises his chin. He hears Smith’s heavy breathing, and the noise of the crowd behind him, and the sound of rough fabric shifting from where Zuri is standing. There’s a palpable feeling of tension around him, and it’s seeping into his muscles.

“Meir – ”

“No.” He doesn’t let Smith speak. “You said that the Light hates. That’s wrong. The Light doesn’t hate anyone.”

“Then explain Shadow magic.”

“Still not hatred.” He prods at where he thinks Smith’s chest is, and is lucky enough to hit the target. “Don’t use religion to justify our cause. It’s wrong.”

“Elyon,” says Zuri, and he hears the warning in their voice even though there’s barely a shift in tone.

“You shut up too.” Attention on Smith. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Smith laughs, and it’s a horrible thing, because it’s honestly amused and a little pitying. “Meir, you’re the new kid on the block. Do _you_  know what’s going on? Or are you just a blind boy playing medic while we enact change?”

The crowd titters, as crowds do, and Elyon struggles to remain calm. He needs to be calm. He knows how this works.

He listened to Vanessa VanCleef for years. He knows where she went wrong. He’s not going to.

He feels Smith lay a hand on his shoulder, but then suddenly it’s gone, and there’s a sickening thud.

“Let’s go,” Zuri says, and Elyon gulps. “Daniyah’s waiting.”

There’s a moment of stillness, then the crowd explodes, because apparently judo throwing a douchebagel is bad publicity. Zuri hurries him in the other direction.

He doesn’t like riots. They’re terrifying and scary and oppressing, and all the noise and confusion just serves to muddle his senses. Sentinel Hill never had enough people for a riot, and the guard were always quick to squash any signs of one. Stormwind doesn’t appear to have the same precautions.

He wonders why.

“Hey, handsome,” purrs a voice from next to him. He startles, and almost says Daniyah’s name, but she shushes him under her breath and slips an arm around his waist. “You look lost.”

“What the fuck was – ”

Zuri places a hand on his head. It’s pretty hard to misread that.

They steer him away from the noise and the yells, away from the seed of poison that Smith’s words have sown, and he begins to wonder if perhaps the city is too big for him.

Daniyah is a solid weight on his side. She smells like too much perfume, and under that, armour polish. Zuri smells like wood smoke and chemicals. Daniyah’s heels click against the stone, regularly and repeatedly, and the rhythm comforts him somewhat. There aren’t a lot of familiar things in Stormwind, and while strictly speaking, Daniyah and Zuri aren’t familiar, they’re better than the roar and rush of the city.

It’s hard to judge where they’re going, because it’s loud and the cobblestones are the last thing on his mind, but it grounds him.

“We’re taking you to my place,” Daniyah says, “because Zuri’s is currently irradiated and it does horrible things to my hair.”

Elyon doesn’t know what Zuri could possibly be doing that would result in their house being irradiated, but it’s probably best not to ask.

He hears the canal before Zuri says it, and he scowls at their general direction.

“I know,” he snaps. “You don’t need to point out the obvious.”

“They’re looking defensive,” Daniyah translates cheerfully, but her grip on his waist tightens fractionally and he subsides. She’s right. He’s on edge and looking for a fight.

Elyon doesn’t like fighting. He’s just done so much of it that he’s not sure how else to react.

“I’m from Darkshire,” Zuri says, suddenly and with no forewarning. Daniyah doesn’t react, but he feels the shift in the air. This is not normal. “My dads were from Stranglethorn.”

“That’s… cool,” he says.

“I was homeless for a year.”

“That’s less cool. No finances?”

“Racism.” The answer is delivered with the same flat, unyielding tone Zuri always uses, but Daniyah exhales at the wrong moment and Elyon recognises the shift. “Dad’s quarter-troll.”

He jerks in surprise, and he feels Daniyah’s hair brush against his shoulder as she shakes her head.

“No work for him in Darkshire, Papa couldn’t support us both, so we saved the money. Lived on the streets.” They remove their hand from his head, finally, but he still feels heavy. “They saved it to send me to the Kirin Tor. I was seventeen when I left.”

They stop talking, and Elyon can fill in the gaps. Zuri knows what he’s talking about. They _know,_  but they’re still not taking his side. They’re friends with Daniyah. They’re poor.

He reaches out a hand, and Zuri brushes up against him deliberately. The silk of robes he feels is expensive.

“A Winter Veil gift,” they say. “From Daniyah. Among others.”

They don’t have a problem with charity. With using the system. With their own luck, advantages.

Elyon can’t fathom that.

“Their point is,” Daniyah interrupts, “we aren’t all completely ignorant. Oh, sure, some of us don’t give a shit and frankly, I don’t see the point in doing so, but you don’t have to treat us like we’re stupid. Like you don’t know us. I pay your _rent,_  Meir.”

He scowls, again, because that’s all he seems to do. Elyon isn’t happy. He’s never been happy and he doesn’t really think it’s worth it. Ignorance is bliss, and to him, it’s the worst thing you can possibly be.

“I don’t want charity. I want to help people.”

“And you _are,_  darling.” Daniyah shakes him a little. The cobblestones turn to grass. “But you can’t help people by being the old man who shouts at cloud.”

He must have misheard that. “If I have something, there’s someone else who doesn’t.”

“And if that someone else has nothing _but_ things?” They draw to a stop, and Daniyah lets him go in order to fiddle with a lock. There comes the sound of footsteps, then a voice scolding Daniyah for not remembering a coat. A butler? Elyon doesn’t have time to process it until Zuri is escorting him upstairs.

The wood doesn’t creak, and is so well polished that his well-worn boots slide against it a little. The house is warm against the winter chill, and he finds himself discarding his horrible monstrosity of a coat. Everywhere smells like perfume, and spices. Elyon doesn’t know what spices, because he doesn’t really get to appreciate cuisine all that often, but he knows enough to distinguish cinnamon and nutmeg.

There’s no undertone of armour polish.

Zuri lets him explore the drawing room they finally end up in. It’s quite small, all things considered, and the chairs are made of a plush fabric that has him swearing as he sinks into their depths. There’s a fireplace in one corner. The walls are equal parts cold stone and warm wood.

Is this Daniyah’s house? Is this where she lives, day after day, and doesn’t feel the pressure of all of her privilege? He hates that he’s always thinking of things like this, but it’s at the forefront of his mind most days, and he just can’t avoid it.

“Apple tea,” Daniyah says, and the door hits the wall as she opens it. A tea set clatters. “And Zuri’s latest baking foray. Probably not explosive. Contains nuts.”

Zuri passes him a cup and saucer, and Daniyah pours the tea. A drop splashes on his wrist.

“Now,” Daniyah says, sitting down somewhere opposite him, “let me ask you a question. I promise this isn’t a test – alright, it’s sort of a test – but it’s a good one.”

“Just ask.” He suddenly feels very tired, and he takes off his glasses, rubbing his eyes.

“What do you get someone who has everything?”

“Are we speaking in clichés now? You know, as a writer, I have to tell you that they’re shit.”

Daniyah clicks her tongue. “I _am_  a composer, I do know a little about writing. Get down off your high horse.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He’s beginning to develop a headache. “I don’t know. The usual – friends, partners, a really big bag of weed.”

Zuri laughs, and Elyon almost wets himself out of shock. Zuri's laugh is a cackle, just on the wrong side of manic, and he realises why they never bother. They sound insane. But it's a good insane.

“Right.” Daniyah sniffs and takes a noisy sip of tea. “Guess how many friends I have?”

He glares at her, because this line of questioning is stupid and he’s tired and he just wants to sit down and argue with someone about classism and intersectionality. “I don’t know, twenty? Thirty? Fifty?”

This is Daniyah. She literally charms people for a living. Well, as a job, she doesn’t really need the money. (Light, does she not need the money.)

“Wrong.”

“A hundred?”

“Let’s count. Zuri. Scarlett. Andy. Ev and Ben. Apples.” She hums. “That makes six.”

“Apples is your horse.”

“Shows the standards, doesn’t it?”

“Hearthfire.”

Zuri’s voice leaves Daniyah quiet for half a moment. Elyon is a little surprised when she then says, with the faintest trace of _sadness_  of all things, “Rikke. Seven.”

Elyon resists the instinctive urge to find a blanket and drown Daniyah in tea, and instead, says, “Your point is?”

“I’m not giving you stuff out of charity.” Daniyah’s voice is serious, more serious than he’s ever heard her. “I’m giving you things because you’re giving me another friend and all I have is money, so that’s what I give you in return.”

“You can’t _buy_  me, Dani!”

“I’m not!” She sets aside her teacup, leaps up, and her bare feet pad across the carpet as she paces. “It’s – it’s _different_. Look, when someone donates ten sweaters to your clinic, do you keep them? No! You give them away. To your friends. Because you’ve got nothing else to give and you’re bad luck and you wouldn’t know genuine empathy if it swept you up and proposed to you in drag.”

“Dani – ”

“I’m not finished!” She’s suddenly in front of him, hair tickling his cheek. “You can accept charity _and_  help people. But that’s not what this is. This isn’t about charity. This has never been about charity. It’s _me,_  I don’t care about charity! I don’t. You know I don’t, I never have, I’m generous because you’re my friend and money is literally the only thing I have so why not throw it around? Life is short. Mine’s going to be shorter. May as well spend money on someone’s rent as buy an insanely priced shield for someone who doesn’t even – ”

She stops, then pulls back, and he hears her thump into her armchair.

“I pay your rent,” she says. “I buy Zuri’s clothes. I grease palms for Scarlett’s business. You’re not special, and this isn’t charity. Just take it.”

She lapses into silence, and the room fills with the sound of tea. Zuri munches on a biscuit.

“I’m sorry.”

“Little picture, Elyon,” Daniyah says shortly. “You should be introduced sometime.”

He sets aside his saucer. He’s not thirsty.

They sit in silence. Daniyah clearly has exhausted talking, he’s not up to anything resembling a civil discussion, and Zuri’s taciturn again.

“Who’s Rikke?”

“Friend.” Daniyah’s voice becomes muffled by cushions. “Don’t worry about her.”

Zuri hums, and it’s at just the pitch that Elyon gets the message. Rikke is complicated, off-limits territory.

“And Andy?”

Daniyah laughs, a little, and sighs. “No one you’d like.”

She pauses.

“Actually, you’d probably get along well. Freaky well. Right up until you realised who he was.”

“That’s not ominous at all.”

“You’ll never meet.” Daniyah falls silent, and a few minutes later, he hears Zuri stand.

“Come on,” Zuri says, and the tea set clatters again. “I’ll show you the guest room. You can stay the night.”

He frowns, then realises. Daniyah’s fallen asleep.

“She’s under a lot of stress lately.” Zuri leads the way, and he holds doors open and follows their footsteps. “Juggling responsibility. She’s… not exactly who you remember.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “no shit.”

He allows Zuri to point him into a room, and sits down on the bed slowly. It’s too soft. Nothing scratches. He feels too full and warm from the tea.

He lies back, and stares at the darkness, and tries to stop picking apart this sudden turn of events and seeking the bad things. Maybe Daniyah does think she’s right. Maybe Zuri does understand. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

It’s doubt, that familiar feeling, that follows him into a fitful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is literally just a dumping ground for the stockpile of oc fic i have, and since tumblr is not a good place to read things, im posting it here. more can be found over on my blog - same username - in my writing tag. thank you for reading xoxoxo


	2. Thanks, Khadgar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daniyah tries to be a responsible human and it doesn't work out so well. Pre-Draenor.

“You sure you’re alright?”

Daniyah waved her hand, bringing her scarf up to cover her face. “I’ll be fine, I’ve only had – what – five shots?”

Zuri rolled their eyes, then raised a hand in farewell. Daniyah twirled her fingers cheerily, then shoved her hands into her gloves, cursing as she shivered.

Stormwind winters were fucking cold.

The wind was gusty, and she could feel the ice in the air. It was late, too late. She didn’t want to go home, she wanted to curl up under a table somewhere and laugh until she cried, because it was the only way she’d be able to and it was the only way she’d be able to feel _normal._

Leaves skittered, chasing each other down the gutters, and the wind pulled them up and around until they were being flung through the air. It was almost amusing, watching them twist and turn, utterly at the mercy of the weather.

She was going to Draenor.

Khadgar had no idea what he was doing, evidently. He just needed a _figurehead_ – the word was spat in her thoughts – someone to fund the expedition and supply the troops and stand around and look pretty.

And the thing she hated the most was that it was all her fault that she had condemned herself to it.

She stumbled on a slick patch of ice, righting herself at the last second. The cold air bit at her wrists, where her coat sleeve rode up and exposed the skin beneath. She rubbed them irritably.

The streets were dark, hazy in the evening mist. She breathed life into her trembling palms, and kept her eyes on the ground, no energy to keep up a façade for no audience. What was the point? Stormwind had been taken away from her, now, so she may as well get used to it. No sense dwelling on things she couldn’t change, right?

It sounded like something Yuuki would say, and she hated herself for the thought the minute it crossed her mind.

She fumbled for her purse. She could probably afford a few more drinks before her coin ran short, and even then, most taverns had a tab for her open.

But she’d have to close them, wouldn’t she? Interdimensional travel, and all that.

She turned a corner, and ran into someone.

“Apologies, doll,” she said, already moving on the way again, but she caught a glimpse of steel glinting and stumbled on the cobbles.

A flash, and her purse was ripped from her hands. She kicked out, her training kicked in, and she caught the cutpurse in the side.

A swear, a scuffle.

A sharp pain.

The thief was off, indistinguishable in the night, and the only thing marking their presence was the agony in her side.

She looked down, and with hands trembling from the cold, pulled a long dagger from her ribs.

“Oh.”

She staggered, sinking to her knees slowly, painfully, agonisingly. It was hard to breathe.

Breath fogged in front of her as she tried to channel the mist, past the ache in her lungs and the trembling of her fingers. It wasn’t coming, and if it was, it was as slow and sluggish as her mind.

She curled up, in that dark street, shaking with cold and wondering if this was how it was always going to be for her. Drunk and pained and oh, so alone.

The wind danced through her hair, and the mist settled in for the night. She pulled her coat closer with fingers that slipped from the black fabric like water down a stream. She could hear someone practicing piano, just a way off; their fingers slipping over the keys and moving back and forth between scales and arpeggios. Up and down, up and down. A _solfeggietto._

She shut her eyes.

“And I said – hey, hey, Miss, are you alright? Oi, Jeremy, come help me – Miss?”

The piano stopped. She almost felt saddened by the loss. The pianist could have been good, if they’d kept trying. Kept learning. They could have.

“Shit, she got knifed. Who’s on duty?”

“Hightower.”

“Fuck that. Help me get her to a medic. Miss, can you hear me?”

She could. She nodded.

“We’re gonna take you to a medic, a’right?” She felt herself being manoeuvred up. “Shit, girl, what were you doing out alone?”

“What d’sit look like?” she asked, laughing a little and coughing up blood. “Pretty girl, out alone drunk – y’r a soldier, do the math.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “C’mon, you’ll be fine.”

Ha.

Not bloody likely.

Not with fucking Draenor on the horizon.

She should’ve gone home with Zuri. Maybe done a few more shots and slept at the bar.

Shows what she got for being responsible.

There were stars above. Through the mist. She couldn’t see them, but she was pretty sure they were there. Just out of reach. Maybe if she just tried –

She couldn’t.

“Maren, what’s the matter? It’s nearly four.”

“I’m sorry, lass, but we’ve got an emergency.”

“An – oh, no, bring her in.”

Warm air was a welcome feeling, but all it did was remind her of how cold she was.

A face popped into view. She hadn’t realised she’d opened her eyes.

“Hello,” said the face. “My name is Alassra. And you?”

“Dani,” she replied, reaching up to prod the face’s cheekbone. The woman’s eyes were pretty.

“Well, Dani, you’re very lucky.”

“Nope.”

The face moved away. “Maybe you don’t believe it, but you are. Thank you, Jeremy.”

Warm light washed over her, and she shifted away, eyes scrunching tight again.

“Shh.” A warm hand on her forehead. “You’ll be fine.”

“He said that too,” Daniyah murmured, and she thought she heard someone snort.

She would rather be cold and alone and drunk than suffer through this stranger’s kindness. She didn’t even have her purse on her.

“I gotta go,” she said.

“Let me heal you first.”

“No, I mean – I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

“Are you afraid of something, Dani?”

“’m scared of everything.”

“That’s not true. You’re not scared of me.”

“Am a bit.”

More warm light. Daniyah didn’t like it. It felt like it was just a precursor to the return of the cold.

“You shouldn’t be.”

“There’s always something to be afraid of.”

Warm hands cupped her face. Everything about this woman was warm.

“Stay with me tonight.”

“Can’t.”

“Please.”

She tried to meet the woman’s eyes, but couldn’t. She wobbled to a stand. She could feel her mist seeping back, chi flowing, trying to help.

“Thanks,” she said, and gathered up her coat. When had it come off? “But no thanks.”

“We’ll take her home,” Maren or Jeremy said – it was getting hard to distinguish.

“Thank you,” the woman murmured, and the door remained open until Daniyah could no longer feel the warm of its light on her back.

Then the cold, dark night swallowed her, and the stars with it.


	3. The Family Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Sadik clan is simultaneously too big, and too small.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“I can’t believe it either but you’re still doing it.”

“I know.”

Elyon offers Daniyah another drink, and she accepts it gladly, knocking back the shot like it’s water.

“Are you bringing Zuri?”

“I’m drunk, not homicidal.”

Elyon snorts, and Daniyah sighs, burying her face in her hands. She lets out a whine, and raps her knuckles on the mahogany bar top. Elyon, predictably, hasn’t drunk anything, because he has to escort her from Stormwind to Zhaleh’s for a _family lunch._

Honestly, Daniyah would rather do literally anything other than be in the same room as all of her family, but because Grandmother Sadik is, unfortunately, Grandmother Sadik, she doesn’t have a choice. Short of running away to Westfall – which, no – there’s nothing she can do.

“I’ll come?” he offers, because that’s his thing. She gives him a flat stare, but he doesn’t so much as move.

She grabs the next shot and downs it without further ado.

 

* * *

 

Zhaleh lives in Elwynn Forest proper, because Zhaleh is weird and thinks that the outdoors are healthy or some shit. She owns several acres; most of them just useless forest, which Daniyah thinks is such a waste and would be better utilised by building a pool or something.

Then again, Daniyah lives in a townhouse that is more up than out, so it makes a certain amount of sense.

She rocks up two hours late, and she intends to leave two hours early, which all in all leaves a grand total of three hours with her family dearest and other extended friends and relations. Her grandparents are Tirasian. There are a _lot_ of extended friends and relations.

Apples is left in the stable, whereupon she promptly begins terrifying Zhaleh's horses, and Daniyah heads up to face her fate.

The door opens before she has time to knock, and suddenly Grandmother Sadik is fussing over her, making the usual comments about height and weight and marital status. Grandmother Sadik is terribly disappointed in the Lawahiz gene that dictates her grandchildren are all too focused on doing their own thing to settle down and get married; never mind that her daughter-in-law never bothered settling down after her children and doesn't appear to intend to any time soon.

"I didn't think you'd come," Grandmother Sadik says in Tirasian, because while she's perfectly capable of speaking fluent Common, she's just as stubborn as her descendants. "Too busy fooling around."

"I've missed you too, Grandmother," Daniyah replies, and disappears into the house to find Zhaleh.

For all Zhaleh's secretly-a-ninety-year-old-retiree act, her house is remarkably modern. Glass and marble, cool tones, carefully placed splashes of colour that at least make it look lived in. The main room is right at the end of the house, bordering the lawn, and runs the entire width; the lawn wall is entirely glass and leads onto a deck that Daniyah sometimes drinks on.

One of Zhaleh's hawks comes fluttering in. It regards Daniyah with suspicious beady eyes, and she waves at it, glad she at least managed to take off most of her jewellery. She's still wearing her gold bracelets, but they're as much for protection as decoration. It's amazing what some plating on steel can do.

She swans into the living room and strikes a pose. "Zhaleh! Your favourite little sister is here!"

The room is full, but Zhaleh has always had spectacular hearing and eyesight and is in front of her in a matter of seconds.

Unlike Daniyah, Zhaleh is tall and takes more after Fatima than Emre. Narrow face, same Lawahiz nose, and high cheekbones. Her eyes have wrinkles and there's a fine string of pearls around her neck. Daniyah delights in criticising Zhaleh's fashion decisions, because she wears horribly traditional Tirasian garb most of the time, which consequently gets eaten by her hawks.

Daniyah does not like Tirasian clothing very much.

"You are right on time," Zhaleh says dryly. Daniyah will at least give her that much, she's got a bloody good sarcastic streak. "Too busy studying?"

"Absolutely. You know me - nose to the books, twenty-four seven." She smiles and shakes Zhaleh's hand. "You're not dead yet."

"Surprisingly, although I can't say my body isn't trying."

Daniyah knows precisely what's wrong with Zhaleh, and she's relatively certain that Zhaleh knows she knows, but what Zhaleh doesn't know is how. Daniyah's little sparklefingers trick is not known among her family further than her parents, and she intends to keep it that way.

But, frankly, if Zhaleh wanted it fixed then it isn't as though there's a shortage of healers. Maybe she likes having an excuse not to leave the house very often.

"Mother missed you," Zhaleh says, leading the way to the main counter that also functions as a makeshift bar. Daniyah grins, and slips behind it, reaching for the cocktail shaker. "She was telling us all about your trip to Draenor."

"Was she? Even I find it hard to turn that into a story - it was so terribly _boring,_ you know. Budgets, finance, liaising. Rotten stuff." She sniffs the open bottle of rum and shrugs, then sets about making herself a daiquiri. "Although there was one time I had a little incident with some birds in Arak - that was pretty memorable. Messed up my nails something awful."

Zhaleh raises an eyebrow at the mention of birds, as Daniyah thought she would, and nods. "Not that one, but I did hear you met Archmage Khadgar."

"He drinks whiskey like it's water and does the most incredible party tricks."

"Naturally. I am shocked and appalled."

"You joke, but there is something inherently wrong with the idea of someone being more of a partier than me." She pouts, and gives Zhaleh a suitably desolate look. "I tried to drink him under the table and _failed_. Do you know how mortifying that is?"

"I have an idea." Zhaleh smiles, and nods towards the rest of the family. "The others will want to see you."

"You are, of course, being sarcastic."

"Me? Never."

The Sadik clan - the Lawahiz side is conspicuously absent - is made up of more people than Daniyah can name, and it's not because she's selectively terrible with names. She spies Cousin Derya the Ex-Ambassador, who she remembers because xe locked her in a closet when she was eleven in a game of sardines. Next to the appetiser tray is Aunt Gīzem, who no one seems to know anything about and spends all her time sampling the cooking. Grandfather Abdullah is being grumpy and her brother Mecīt is trying to cheer him up, but given that Mecīt is rarely any better, Daniyah doesn't know how successful he will be.

General Fatima is speaking very seriously to Great Uncle Neyüzüvar, who is nodding and paying more attention to the bottom of his glass. Daniyah gives them a wide berth, and Zhaleh allows it, because Zhaleh isn't completely intolerable and is probably Daniyah's favourite elder sibling. She sees her once or twice a year, which is three times more than she sees, say, Heydar.

"Roshan," says Zhaleh, approaching one of the younger Sadik siblings. "Daniyah has finally made her entrance."

Roshan turns and smiles, faintly. He was admiring something on the wall and looking distinctly uncomfortable, so it's probably for the best that Zhaleh intercepted him. "Yaya, long time, no see."

"How long, five months?" she asks, because she's genuinely not sure and in all honesty, it's probably been longer. She's been a little busy.

Roshan shrugs and shakes her hand. She ruffles his hair, messing up the carefully combed locks, and he frowns at her. She winks.

Roshan is the youngest brother of all the Sadik siblings, and studying Politics and Economic Theory in Stormwind. He doesn’t look like either of his parents; ironically, he takes after Grandmother Sadik, and has the most amazing hooked nose that makes him look even more like a hawk than Zhaleh does. Daniyah is quite fond of him, as he’d sensible and laid back and only a few years younger than her.

"Roshan has been staying with me during his holidays," Zhaleh explains, setting her glass aside and motioning towards the bedroom side of the house. "I have been teaching him how to hunt, and he has his own hawk now."

"Her name is Hoot," Roshan says, and Daniyah is not in the least bit surprised. Roshan has a startling lack of imagination.

"Marvellous. How many years left?"

"Two and I get my Bachelor's." He puffs up, very slightly, and hooks his thumbs into his belt in a gesture Daniyah realises he got from her. "I'm coming first at the moment."

"Father been helping you, has he?" She laughs at his frown, and toasts him. "A joke, O brother mine. Good for you. Marvellous work. Calls for drinks."

"It really doesn't."

Zhaleh snorts and shoots Daniyah a Glance. Daniyah doesn't know what it means, but it's very definitely a Glance rather than a glance, so _something_ important must be going on.

"Good afternoon," comes a voice over her shoulder, and she freezes.

"Father! How wonderful to see you! I completely wasn't planning on getting Roshan smashed for shits and giggles!"

Emre raises his eyebrows, very slowly, and she grins.

"I believe you." He doesn't. "Zhaleh, weren't you planning on serving lunch at one?"

Zhaleh looks at the clock and nods, gesturing for them to follow her. Daniyah loops her arms in Roshan's and Emre's, and winks.

The seating is unarranged, probably because one of Zhaleh's hawks ate one. It happens every year and Daniyah isn't sure how Zhaleh hasn't figured it out by now. Or maybe she has, and she just likes the excuse. That does sound like Zhaleh.

She ends up opposite Grandmother Sadik. Because of course she does.

"When are you getting married?" Grandmother Sadik says, in that tone of voice that is almost-but-not-quite haranguing. She has spent many years perfecting the technique, and the results are flawless.

"Never."

"Got a boyfriend?"

"No. Got a boy friend, though."

"Yes, the Meir boy, I heard." Grandmother Sadik has a vast network of grandmothers and uncles and other gossips, who notify her of any change in the status quo. No doubt she's heard a lot about Elyon. "He's a bit poor for you."

"Thanks, Grandmother, I'll be sure to tell him you said as much."

"And that big friend of yours, that Zuri fellow - is he - are they still associating with you?"

Daniyah will at least give her that, while Grandmother Sadik is a bit of a bigot, she tries. Sometimes.

“Yes, Grandmother, they are.” She pokes at her food and regards the rest of the table through half-mast eyelids. “Do you have a message for them, too?”

“They need to start doing their hair more respectably.” Grandmother Sadik shakes her head. “All these silly colours and styles. Youth these days.”

“Zuri’s older than me, Grandmother.”

“Then they should know better.”

She groans, and narrowly resists the impulse to drop her head into her stew.

The rest of the day passes much in the same vein. She and Roshan have a lengthy discussion about Roshan’s studying; Emre draws her aside to ask about her health and she lies to his face; Zhaleh disappears for a while and Daniyah finds her in her room trying not to faint.

“You know,” Daniyah says, coming to sit on the bed beside Zhaleh and pulling out a compact to redo her kohl, “usually people see a doctor when they’re ill.”

“Yes.” Zhaleh reaches into her bedside drawer and pulls out a small bottle. She twists the cap, then dry swallows a pill. She gives Daniyah a look so reminiscent of General Fatima that Dan almost leaves the room. “I have.”

“And?”

“Nothing to be done.”

Daniyah pouts, because she’s pretty sure she could fix Zhaleh’s dumb heart condition, so why can’t a proper doctor? Hell, even Elyon would be able to at least give her some advice, and he’s not even anything more than a settled paramedic.

Zhaleh sighs and straightens her hijab, before her hands come to settle in her lap. Her back is straight, picture perfect, but there is a frailty in the posture that Daniyah can’t quite pinpoint the source of. Zhaleh has always been regimented, reserved. A perfect hostess, intelligent and polite, with a knack for conversation and understanding. It’s one of the reasons Daniyah doesn’t really like her, because Zhaleh never pandered to Daniyah’s need for attention – and it is a need, it always has been. She needs social validation, an outlier in her family, and Zhaleh doesn’t understand that.

“Daniyah,” she says, “I would appreciate it if you kept this between us.”

“Sure thing, dove.” Daniyah eyes her lipstick in the tiny mirror; it could possibly do with a touch up. “Haven’t told anyone before, have I?”

“No, but I am simply reaffirming.”

Zhaleh is a lawyer and a suspicious bastard sometimes. Another reason Daniyah prefers Roshan and Shahnaz’s company.

“How are you?” Zhaleh asks, and Daniyah looks up at her in surprise. Zhaleh meets her gaze with a quirked brow, sarcastic humour dancing in her eyes.

“Just peachy,” she replies, and taps her fingers in a roll. “And yourself?”

“Quite fine.”

They smile, liar to liar, and Daniyah stands.

“You have a side door, don’t you?”

Zhaleh nods. “East wing, first floor, down the third corridor. Take your horse with you – she irritates mine.”

“I know.” Daniyah smiles cheerfully and blows Zhaleh a kiss. “Have a nap.”

“Just for five minutes,” she says, drier than Tanaris’ deserts, and lies down. “If someone disappeared – well, I would have to explain to Grandmother.”

“Such a shame,” Daniyah says, and slips out the door and through the house without further ado.

This is always how family gatherings end – how Zhaleh’s family gatherings end. Zhaleh drives herself too far, Daniyah goes to ‘help’, Daniyah goes missing and turns up back in Stormwind an hour later. She suspects Zhaleh does it in order to give Daniyah an excuse; then again, Zhaleh _is_ rather ill.

Zhaleh is just as conniving as their mother, and as unreadable as their father, and Daniyah doesn’t know what to make of her.

It’s just as well that they only see each other a few times a year.

But, Daniyah thinks, as she tries to wheedle Apples away from the water trough, it looks like that’s going to change. She visits Roshan often, and if Roshan is staying at Zhaleh’s…

Zhaleh loves her family. Daniyah associates Zhaleh with their family, and she doesn’t _like_ their family, but she does like Roshan.

It’s a curious thought, and she ponders it as she rides through Elwynn, along through Goldshire and straight back to Stormwind. Family is such a fluid concept, a representation of a multitude of relationships. She likes Roshan, and Shahnaz, and she doesn’t mind Zhaleh. She can’t stand General Fatima. Adalet is so much older than her that she barely has a relationship at all to speak of.

Maybe Zhaleh can be like Emre. An understanding, rather than a relationship.

The thought isn’t too bad, and she thinks she rather likes it. Yes. She’s going to give Zhaleh a chance, and some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> zhaleh is huge fun to write and there's probably going to be a lot of her ngl


	4. A Dissertation on Sha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daniyah waxes philosophical about flaws, and the sha.

“ _The sha are manifestations of negative emotions. In order to combat them, we must retain balance; as well you have learnt.”_

* * *

 

Some people were easy to predict.

Zuri, brilliant and bland Zuri, was not. Not to those that didn’t know them. But Daniyah knew the sha, and to some extent, Zuri, and hazarded a guess.

Sometimes, Zuri was Anger. Fast and impulsive, prone to offense, more likely to snap than stare. They ran ahead, ran into the fray, as if to expunge some unnameable trait and absorb serenity. It was bizarre, to Daniyah. That someone would want to be near the action. That someone who _didn’t have to be_ would want to be near the roar of the flames, the yells, the roiling hate and desire to fight.

But Zuri, sometimes, was angry.

And thus, Anger.

Yet, Daniyah had seen Zuri as Despair. A sinking, crippling pit of despair. It held their limbs like stone and froze their mind, damning them to solemnity, to silence. They didn’t speak. They just watched, and something in their eyes made Daniyah want to cry, because it was so foreign and so familiar. Dark. A kind of knowledgeable brought about by experience, not books, not lessons.

Zuri felt heavy, those days, heavier for Daniyah to carry. Not literally – Yu’lon, no – but as support. Daniyah didn’t do support. But when Zuri’s eyelids grew heavier and their gaze flattened out, they needed it, and Daniyah had to do her best.

So yes. Zuri was Despair. But they were also Anger, and there was a fine line between the two that spoke of balance.

Scarlett was easier to predict, but also not. Easier, because Daniyah could draw the parallels to Zuri. Harder, because Daniyah didn’t understand Scarlett’s methods of coping and had trouble deciphering them.

In the end, though, it boiled down to the fact that sometimes when Daniyah was drinking, Scarlett was drinking with her, and things rose to the surface.

Despair. A futility, a lack of purpose; this idea that if Scarlett wasn’t being productive, she would actually have to face her problems, her issues. Daniyah understood that, but not the duty. Not the concept of responsibility for responsibility’s sake. They had talked about this before, over a very nice bottle of whiskey, and never drawn a solid conclusion. Scarlett needed a purpose. Daniyah didn’t define duty in the same way, and they approached the issue from completely different angles.

Scarlett needed a purpose because it kept her from Despair, and Daniyah didn’t know enough about Despair to push a solution.

So when Scarlett came around with sweaters that Daniyah would never wear, bearing a bottle of something Daniyah would never drink out of snobbery, Daniyah just held the door open, gave her a glittering smile, and tried to find a measure of euphoria to balance out the depression. To balance the sinking feeling she saw sometimes. Heard in Scarlett’s tone.

Ev, Elyon told Daniyah, was Doubt. For once, Daniyah didn’t even need his input; there was something about the kid that just _screamed_ uncertainty. Even the odd enthusiasm, the gullibility, they all parted for heartbeats of unknown.

She saw it in the way Ev talked, in the way he moved. When they danced around Daniyah’s house, he followed and didn’t lead, his steps jerky and utterly lacking in assurance. His intense focus would give way to second-guessing himself in a matter of minutes, even on things he knew. When they were cooking, and he burnt something, Daniyah sometimes saw the way his eyes crinkled and fell away when she wasn’t panicking.

It was in the way he spoke, too. She heard it more and more clearly, more than she could read in his body language; people’s voices always told her more than they thought. He phrased things delicately, thoughts jumping all over the place. Things that weren’t questions were spoken like they were, in case he was wrong, in case the person didn’t like it, in case in case in case. It was self-doubt through and through.

She didn’t know a huge amount about Ev; she knew he was good fun and that he had Issues with things and that he viewed alchemy the way she viewed maths. She knew he was smart, very smart, smarter than her and smarter than even Zuri.

She knew he didn’t realise it. She knew he doubted it.

She knew with every fibre of her being that he was Doubt.

Ben was… hard.

Daniyah and Ben didn’t have a clear relationship. It was fluid, mostly circumstance than anything else. Scarlett was Mum, Ev was her secret twin, and Ben was…

Ben was Ben.

She thought he was like Yuuki, early on. The same kindness, the same genial manner, disposition. Different expression of it – Ben was smiles and bouncing and chatter, Yuuki was calm and polite and just as gentle – but similar in personality. But that didn’t carry through, not completely. Ben wasn’t jealous, didn’t have a jealous bone in his body. If he was envious of people, Daniyah didn’t notice it. She simply didn’t know what to make of him.

Until one day she was talking with his younger sister Ruth, and then she realised.

Ben was Anger.

It was subtle, not obvious. He was so kind that she, at first, didn’t believe her conclusion could be right. But she saw the way he looked at her when she drank, when she bitched about her mother, and she saw the way he moved on his toes. Bouncing, bouncing all the time, but not always from joy. It was the movement of someone who expects a blow.

She saw the flash in his eyes when he saw a father yelling at his son in public.

Yes, Ben was Anger. But it was latent anger, buried, not one that he cared to address or set loose. Daniyah wasn’t sure whether this was a good idea, but it was what it was.

Elyon was easy. He wasn’t Anger, because he was always frustrated, angry at something. It was an emotion he was familiar with and managed well and knew how to control to serve his goals. There was something almost manipulative in the way he raged, too; it was blunt and direct, no beating around the bush, but head on and in your face. You couldn’t ignore him. She couldn’t ignore his words or his body language or the lessons he was preaching, even if she didn’t understand them.

No, Elyon wasn’t Anger. He wasn’t Hatred, either, because his anger stemmed from love, from this all-encompassing love for the people he met and knew. Daniyah, who didn’t love anyone and was rather afraid to figure out if perhaps she did, couldn’t quite conceptualise it properly, but knew well enough that he wasn’t Hatred.

He was Doubt.

The creeping feeling that had him throwing himself into his causes, then drawing back. The one that had him pausing mid-rant to turn and leave, cane tapping away even though he knew the layout of her house, his house, Zuri’s house. The one that had him pushing his glasses up and hunching his shoulders in.

The one that meant they never, ever spoke of religion.

She saw it in everything he did, once she realised, and spent a long week watching him with narrowed eyes. Watching his movements, his tone, watching how his self-assurance melted away when he wasn’t fighting people. When he wasn’t arguing, protesting, looking after his kids. So much uncertainty; so much Doubt.

 

* * *

 

At first, Daniyah had thought she was Pride.

A tilt of the chin, a smirk. Wicked, glittering eyes. She was like a magpie to gold, new and exciting experiences nothing but another bracelet in a drawer. She walked with her hips swinging, because she was pretty and rich and she laughed like she meant it.

Pride felt right. Pride made her stand tall, earrings jingling. Pride turned her hair blonde and her jewellery diamond.

But then, as Pride fell, she stood before Fear and saw herself.

 

* * *

 

_“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?”_

_“You see yourself as you are; not as the components that make you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this came from a long discussion about sha with tumblr user littleaviatrix - the rightful owner of my godchildren scarlett, ev, and ben. because everyone needs a little angst in their life.


	5. Sideways Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Zuri has a - somewhat unsuccessful - heart to heart with Daniyah.

“Dani, Zuri needs help with a project.”

“Hmm? I’ll send Kaylee along with something. Here, what do you think between these two skirts?”

 

* * *

 

“Where’s Elyon?”

“Who knows? Where’s my handbag?”

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Dan, listen; I don’t want to leave Ev alone to his own devices and come back to char and cinders, d’you think you could – ”

“Mum, I’m a little busy right now. I’ll talk to you later, promise.”

 

* * *

 

It’s a little difficult, sometimes, to get Daniyah’s attention. Zuri considers themself an expert in the matter, because they’ve spent years dealing with her. Daniyah’s focus will swap to whatever is most interesting and effortless at that point in time, which is almost always not the most immediate problem; particularly when that problem is not actually Daniyah’s.

And so Zuri finds themself standing in front of Daniyah’s at three o’clock in the morning, and wondering if perhaps they should have gone to Elyon’s instead.

Then they remember that Elyon is somewhat terrified of them, and decide, no, it’s best at Daniyah’s.

“Kaylee?” they ask, and the little butler peers through the door before opening and letting them in. “Is Daniyah at home?”

“Yes,” zie says, “but…”

Zie purses zir lips, and Zuri raises an eyebrow gently. Kaylee is clever, and the epitome of professionalism, and thus never voices zir opinions on Daniyah unless the circumstances are pressing. Zuri tends to need to prod zem a bit.

“But.”

“She’s not seeing anyone,” Kaylee says, with the tone of voice that indicates very clearly that Kaylee does not approve of this decision.

Zuri, in traditional Zuri fashion, doesn’t give two figs, and nods into the house. Kaylee turns around and walks in, not giving them any indication of zir opinion, but leaving the door open. Plausible deniability. Zuri can respect that.

Daniyah’s townhouse has a lot of windows. Zuri’s own place is a tiny thing squeezed a few blocks down, paid for by the Kirin Tor, on the grounds that it’s better to house their agents than have them live in taverns. Which Zuri would, if given half a chance. But Daniyah’s house is full of windows, and they’re all curtained, the gauzy drapes obscuring the view across the Mage Quarter.

They wonder whether it’s to stop people looking in, or looking out.

They push open the door to Daniyah’s room, and let the quiet creak herald their entrance. Daniyah isn’t in sight, so they sit down on the pouf in front of the dresser. Daniyah’s foundation is lying open, and there is a pile of used tissues stained with lipstick. Zuri scrunches their nose and nudges them into the rubbish bin.

They breathe, and fiddle with their scarf absently. It’s a gift from Scarlett, because while she has an unfortunate tendency towards mothering, she at least understands the importance of a scarf. (Zuri has never been mothered in their life and they don’t understand why Daniyah finds it an endearing trait. It’s quite irritating.)

Daniyah comes out from her bathroom, towel pinned absently around her chest and another being vigourously rubbed through her hair. She looks tired, if Zuri is guessing her expression right. It’s hard to tell past the bright yellow towel.

“Daniyah,” they start, but Daniyah startles and shrieks, towel flopping. She waves her hands around a bit before readjusting it and heaving out a shaky exhale, then laughing. Zuri waits patiently, and raises a brow.

“Twitchy.”

“You’re creepy,” Daniyah says frankly, “and I distinctly remember telling Kaylee that I wanted privacy. I take it you muscled your way in?”

“I want help.”

“You know where my wallet is, take what you need.” She moves over towards her wardrobe. Zuri has had nightmares about that wardrobe. “Unless it’s a larger sum, then I can write you a cheque. Or a very small one. I don’t think I own denominations below a ten-silver.”

Zuri frowns, a slight twitch of their mouth, and says in a subtly sharper tone, “I don’t want your money.”

“Do I have to repeat the monologue from last week? I – ”

“I don’t want money.”

Daniyah stops talking, audibly confused, and pokes her head out. She eyes Zuri while pulling on a shirt, which is undoubtedly meant to look competent and graceful, but involves too much fiddling to be either. Zuri waits.

“Then why are you coming to me?” Daniyah tugs on her earlobe. “I mean, unless you want to sleep with me, which you’re usually blunter about. Although possibly you’ve learnt about tact – or talking around the problem, I believe you called it last – incredibly hypocritical, by the way, that you learn so now. It was only two weeks ago that – ”

“Not everything revolves around money and sex, Daniyah.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Zuri clicks their tongue, and stands. “I’m leaving.”

Daniyah groans and hurries forward, and while she doesn’t have nearly enough traction to make Zuri sit back down, she does at least turn them from the door to the chair just off to the side.

“Fine, fine, just – speak Common, you cryptic bastard. I don’t understand whatever they speak in Darkshire.”

“Common.”

“Alright, then, Stranglethorn.”

“Still Common.”

Daniyah huffs, and abandons Zuri in front of the chair, disappearing back off into the wardrobe. She comes out a second later as Zuri sinks into the velvet, bouncing around as she tries to get into a skirt that, privately, they think is perhaps a few sizes too small for her. But Daniyah is as Daniyah does. Zuri’s always known that, and they aren’t one to judge inconsequential things.

“Date?”

“Job. Later tonight.” She drops down in front of her dresser and begins doing awful cosmetics things that Zuri finds too intimidating to follow. “So, what d’you need my help with?”

“I met someone.”

“What the fuck?!”

Daniyah drops her… whatever that is, and spins to face them. They give her a dispassionate look, but that doesn’t faze her, and she just begins to wave her hands about and pout.

“Since when? Do I know them? Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this? Answers, Zuri!”

“October, no, because you’re annoying.” Zuri picks up one of the books they left on the desolate bookshelf and flips through. “Her name is Sally. She’s a consultant.”

“Sally, Sally, Sally.” Daniyah taps her eyeliner on her chin. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. Why didn’t you tell me sooner.”

“Because you’re annoying.”

Daniyah gets up, and Zuri watches as she strides over and blocks Zuri in. It only works because Zuri is seated, and Daniyah somehow is already wearing heels – no shoes inside rule aside – so Daniyah has, at best, an inch. She slams her hands on the back of the chair either side of Zuri’s head, and glares.

“Talk to me.”

“Listen.”

“I listen!”

“You don’t.”

Daniyah’s glare intensifies, and Zuri gazes back, because Daniyah is not intimidating.

“I’d listen if you ever _spoke,_ but no, you just call me annoying and tease me about your girlfriend. Sally. Lovely name. How old is she, twelve?”

“Twenty-six and seven months.”

Daniyah huffs, and folds her arms. “You never learnt my birthday.”

“I never dated you.”

“Ohh, I see how it is.” She sits back, and wags her finger, and looks a lot more like her grandmother than Zuri thinks she intends to. “Hoes before bros, huh?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Sorry.” She isn’t. She grins, lightning fast, and then perches on the arm of the chair. Zuri sighs, and shifts to give her more room.

They had come for advice, and Daniyah, despite her flaws, is the best person to ask about it, but even their patience is finite. They like Daniyah. A lot. They really do, because she’s fun and she helps, but she’s…

She’s thick as a brick, sometimes.

“I need to borrow your words,” they say, “in case Sally wants to sleep with me.”

Daniyah blinks, and frowns, and reaches up to straighten her towel hat thing. She opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again.

“I don’t see the problem.”

Zuri frowns. There is mutual frowning. Zuri frowns a bit more, channelling Elyon.

“You’ve slept with me,” Daniyah points out, reasonably enough.

They wait for her to make her point.

“Why should Sally be any different? You’re dating her, aren’t you?”

“It’s different.”

“How?”

Zuri sighs, because this is exactly why they came to Daniyah, but they rather expected it to be the other way around. Daniyah doing the explaining. Zuri is bad at explaining.

“You’re fun,” they say. “It’s just… fun. You make it fun. And I trust you.”

“You don’t trust Sally?”

“Sally isn’t fun. Sally is emotions.”

Fuck, words are hard. They scowl and sigh.

Daniyah shrugs. “Well, just tell her that you don’t want to. Most people who aren’t assholes respect that, and if she’s an asshole then at least you’ll know, and you’re big. Scary. You can take care of yourself.”

“That isn’t what I’m worried about.”

“Then what? That she’ll find out you’re ace? That you’ll have to do the 101? That the manure will get a rapid introduction to the windmill?”

“Shut up.”

“And you complain that I don’t listen.”

“You _don’t.”_

“Only because you never _say_ anything.”

“I’ll talk to Elyon,” Zuri threatens, and it really is a threat, because then Elyon will try to give life advice and they both know that Elyon’s life advice is, if possible, even worse than Daniyah’s. Also Zuri doesn’t know Elyon, and while he does seem like a reasonable sort of fellow, they don’t trust him like they trust Daniyah.

(The more Zuri learns about Daniyah – very little, considering the years – the more they realise that they _shouldn’t_ be trusting her, but it’s too late to back out now. Zuri is invested, damn them.)

Daniyah groans, and her head hits the back of the chair as she slumps back. She’s clearly frustrated, but for some weird reason, Zuri doesn’t really care.

“Look,” Daniyah says, “everyone has sex for different reasons. Maybe because it’s fun, and it’s just a way to pass the time and enjoy themself. Maybe because it’s – as you say – _emotions,_ a way of showing intimacy and making sure his partner feels loved. And for others it’s meaningless, just another action like brushing her teeth or buying groceries. A means to an end. Some people just don’t. It’s not their cup of tea.”

She swung her legs over Zuri’s, and patted them on the head. “You just need to sit down with Sally and have a good, grown up discussion, and make sure you’re on the same page. Hey, maybe she’s ace too, and you can happily adopt six dogs and go about your business. I don’t care. You do you.”

Zuri sighs and follows Daniyah’s lead, dropping their head back and staring at the ceiling. They can barely even have a discussion with Daniyah. What makes anyone think they can have a discussion with Sally?

Although, frankly, it is easier to talk with Sally. She’s quick and clever and so devastatingly intelligent. She seems to understand Zuri, or at least whatever Zuri tries to say, so maybe it will be _easier_ than talking to Dan.

The idea is new, and strange.

They think about that for a moment. Daniyah has always been their best friend – since Yuuki, Zuri knew Daniyah needed support, and knew just as well that there was none – but Daniyah is… hard. Difficult to connect with. Zuri doesn’t connect well, either, which is perhaps why it doesn’t usually bother them, but sometimes Zuri gets tired of being supportive. They need support too. Not everything is about Daniyah and her nails.

“Hey.” Daniyah nudges them, and they flick their eyes down to notice, surprised, that at some point Daniyah flopped over their lap. “Are you still with me? Don’t tell me I’m that terrible a host. I thought I was far more interesting than the ceiling.”

Zuri groans again, and hits their head on something, and scowls at the sudden shoot of pain.

“I could kiss it better.”

“I will hit you.”

“Ooh, getting adventurous are we?”

“Must you.”

“Sorry.”

“Liar.”

Daniyah laughs and stands, and Zuri swats at her lazily. The end of their fingers catches on the towel in Daniyah’s hair, and it unravels, dropping to the floor. Zuri glances up, considering apologising, then does a double take.

“Daniyah, your hair - ”

“Hmm?” Daniyah reaches up and pulls a handful of the brilliant red locks forward. “What about it?”

“It’s red.”

“Yes.”

Zuri is quiet for a moment, then; “But you’re blonde.”

Daniyah laughs. “Hair dye, doll – you know what that is.”

“Yes.”

“So I dyed it red.”

“Why?”

Daniyah shrugs, and wiggles her hips a little, which makes Zuri roll their eyes. “Work.”

Zuri eyes her. They don’t like it. Daniyah looks stupid with red hair. Like someone different. Zuri doesn’t like it at all.

“Get rid of it.”

“Can’t. It’s for work. The work that I can’t under any circumstances tell you about ever, so if I see you here next week on Monday with a bottle of citrus vodka I’ll throw you out. Two bottles.”

Zuri stands, hearing the dismissal in Daniyah’s tone, and pauses at the door.

“I’ll introduce you to Sally.”

“Not necessary.” Daniyah pops her lips in the mirror, checking her lipstick. She flashes Zuri a smile. It doesn’t meet her eyes. “Take care, darling. Don’t ask Elyon for advice.”

“I’m already scraping the bottom of the barrel,” they say as they close the door. “I don’t need to go there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive been pondering writing this for about three months and i finally wrote it over christmas. i think that while sexuality is technically a 'taboo' subject, it can really show a lot about a person, orientation aside. dan and zuri both have very different approaches to it and it's fun exploring how that relates back to their relationship - which is weird enough without adding in more levels of complexity, but i do it anyway because it's fun. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	6. Free Floating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flash of time from when Daniyah was sixteen and, if possible, even stupider than she is now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the sadfic war of 2k16 - tw for drug use and suicidal thoughts/self-destructive behaviour

They always say, when some Poor Innocent Child steps a toe out of line, that they 'fell in with the wrong crowd' or 'had a bad friend.'

And, yeah, Daniyah can see how that could be true.

She's that bad friend.

It's four in the morning. She's alone in her room, her mother is Light-knows-where and her father is asleep. She can't sleep - couldn't even if she wanted to - despite the fact that every muscle in her body is relaxed.

Everything is... slower, like this. Like she's floating. Like there's nothing between her and whatever's on the other side.

It's not that she's suicidal. At least, she doesn't think she is. She doesn't really want to die; it's terrifying, really, and she's quite a bit scared of it. But there's something about the feeling, the rush of not having to think and of not being so scared all the time that's...

Freeing.

She curls up in a corner, at the foot of her closet with her skirts and dresses brushing around her. It's nice, in here. Calm. Safe. She doesn't feel so alone here, because each article of clothing is like a person at a party, a touch of fingers on her arm or a brush of hips. Even as she comes down from what had been a rather spectacular high, she doesn't feel like leaving.

Her room is large. There's her bed, which is too big for one person and she regularly tries to fill the gaps; her closet that she absconds to when everything gets to be too much. A set of optimistic bookshelves filled with textbooks she's never opened. Her tutors have just about given up on her, now, citing that she's not smart enough to learn and lacks drive.

They're probably right.

The shelves that aren't occupied with books have her flute and stacks of score paper, hidden away in case the maid finds them. Daniyah doesn't know if she'll lose them, but she knows her mother won't approve, and... that thought has her sucking in her breath and retreating further into the closet.

She shuts her eyes, trying to hold on to the last vestiges of the drug running through her veins. It's hard, sometimes, because the further she sinks, the unhappier she gets, and the more she resorts to it. It's a spiral of positive feedback - see, she does listen to her tutors, even if they don't believe in her - that leads to her here, alone, every other night.

The glittery nail polish adorning her nails is beginning to chip, and she makes a mental reminder to get it redone. In the meantime, she curls them close to her chest and draws her knees up, nibbling gently as thoughts whirl. Her hair falls in her face. The dark brown curls are nearly indistinguishable in the darkness, as she deigned not to light her lamp and instead finds solace in the dark.

Never mind that she's just as scared of the dark as she is anything else. Maybe she's just masochistic.

Something creaks above her, and she buries herself in her knees. She's scared it will be her father, or Roshan, or little Shahnaz who still believes that her sister is a heroine.

Daniyah's not a heroine. Daniyah has never been and will never be a heroine, but take off the 'e' and you wouldn't be far wrong.

Her skirt is awkwardly short. She wore it because that's what you're supposed to wear to these sorts of parties - the Little Black Dress, isn't that right? - but she doesn't like black and she doesn't like the dress. It rides up because of her hips, too wide for her still growing frame, and she spent most of the evening trying to pull it down furtively. At least it got her a few looks. She'll take the shallow attention of a sixteen-year-old boy over the dull silence of her house any day.

She tugs at it, pulling it up as if fooling herself that it will reach her knees. It doesn't - it barely reaches mid-thigh, but she can dream - and for some reason that interrupts the calm serenity of the opium and instead makes her want to cry.

So she does. She sits in her closet, with silk brushing her shoulders and nails slowly deteriorating, and cries her heart out.

No one comes.

No one comes because Daniyah's afraid of what she'd have to face if they did. At least Yuuki never says anything; the same couldn't be said of her siblings. And if her father found out - if her mother found out -

She traps her sobs behind her hands and ignores the hair being plastered to her cheeks.

Whatever anyone else says, whatever she tells herself, she's still just a kid. She's sixteen and she's self-destructive and she's scared. Usually that's enough. She's too scared of heights to get on gryphons, or skydive; she's too scared of injury to go near knives. She's scared of dying.

But opium, heroin; they aren't like that. They're easy, fast, enjoyable in the moment and she can live with the after effects. Sure, she can't focus and her tutors have left her behind and she doesn't see the point in maintaining friendships anymore, and maybe it's slowly chipping away at her self-esteem even further, but it satisfies her. Makes her feel just that little bit less like a failure, even if it is leaving her alone in the dark at four o'clock in the morning with nothing but her clothes for company.

A melody starts dancing around in her head, a melancholy little thing that's neither minor not major, but in a mode of its own. Too many semitones, her flute teacher would say, if she were still taking lessons. (Her mother took that away from her, months ago. 'If you don't start paying attention in actual lessons, I don't see why I should waste money on this.' Daniyah had almost broken down, then, because that was all she was good at and all she thought she could actually be intelligent in, but no. She's not. Even her maths is running away from her now, her brain unable to retain the complicated theories while she's spending every other night out and in company that could almost be worse than hers.)

It jumps around, but sings inside her mind, begging to be written down. She slips from the closet. Her feet hit the carpet and she's momentarily distracted by the softness, before she shoves away the sleepiness and totters over to where she's hidden her sheet music.

The ink pen feels clunky in her hands, and she remembers that she needs to light the lamp so she can even see what she's doing. The light sputters, almost winking out before she cups her hands around it and blows gently.

Notes come easy. The ornamentation is childish, a little too showy at times, but the structure is nice. She goes through sheet after sheet, music falling from her pen in the way that it can't from her flute. If her mother hears, then she might lose the flute, and she doesn't want to risk it. She's too scared.

Her handwriting is on the illegible side; her hand-eye co-ordination not what it should be. That she can even remember the notation is enough for her, because she knows that she's not always this lucky when coming down. Sometimes all she can do is hide in her closet and not move for hours, fighting the urge to retch and worrying her nails. On worse nights, she'll bring her blanket with her, and sleep with the closet doors shut.

She runs the fingers of her left hand over the cool metal of her flute, and then tucks it away. Just in case.

Eventually, when the sun starts to peek over the horizon, she feels that the piece is as finished as it will ever be. She secrets it away with the rest of her scores, hidden behind the textbooks in full knowledge that no one will ever look there, because everyone knows Daniyah Sadik is a terrible student and will never amount to anything.

Daniyah won't amount to anything, anyway, no matter how well she studies. What does it matter what she does now?

There's the sound of people moving, both upstairs and downstairs, and she hastily tucks the rest of her things away and shrugs into her nightdress, clambering into bed to steal a few hours while she can. Maybe her father will rouse her, if he even notices, or one of her tutors will suddenly remember she exists and take the time to consider teaching her. Not that they'll have much luck, but it's the thought that counts.

She pulls the blanket over her head and tucks her knees to her chest, curling into a tiny ball like a tiny sparrow shying away from the cold. It's just another night, like many before and many after. She'll get through it.

She always does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	7. Elyon Meir's Collection of Small Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Elyon, somehow, gets saddled with yet another small child and also a nap.

"Flora, can you mix up some more of the Peacebloom salve?"

"Do I have to?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

He can hear Flora's pout, and it doesn't take a sighted person to figure out that she's sulking, but 'because I said so' is the ultimate trump card that even a petulant nine year old can't fight. She moves, and the sound of a mortar and pestle begin to ring out.

Elyon has a lot of kids. Some are just passers through, who stay a few nights then disappear off again, only to come back when they need a meal or a place to stay. But there are some regulars, who may as well live with him; and then there's Mikey. Mikey's basically his adopted son, and followed him to Stormwind all the way from Westfall one afternoon citing familial disputes.

Given that Elyon is 100% sure that Mikey is, in fact, an orphan, he didn't believe this is the slightest and just opened the door a little further.

"Hey, Elyon?"

He sits up, abandoning the herbs he was fiddling with, and turns. Mikey's voice is quiet and faintly impish, and very much influenced by Elyon's own gentle tone, but he's got a particular cadence when he's actually worried. It flicks up nervously, less self-assured and more 'Don't get mad, but - '

"Yes?"

A pause, and suddenly Elyon hears someone sneeze. Flora never sneezes and it's too high to be Mikey.

"Do you have someone with you?" he asks, and Mikey shifts on his feet. Guiltily.

"Don't get mad, 'kay - " he starts, and Elyon immediately knows that yes, Mikey does have someone with him.

"Who is it?"

A pause. Elyon sets aside his knife and folds his arms.

"Her name is Jae Yoon," Mikey replies slowly, "and she's three and three quarters."

Elyon doesn't look after kids younger than six. Not because he doesn't like them - please, he loves kids, age is irrelevant - but because he doesn't have enough time or headspace to give them the care they need. Mikey knows this. Mikey's been with him since Elyon first set up his clinic in Westfall, and Mikey was seven and a half. Now, Mikey's almost nineteen, and should know better.

Yet Mikey's brought a little kid to him, and Elyon _knows_ Mikey, and he knows that Mikey wouldn't unless there was some real reason for it.

"Hi, Jae Yoon," he says, standing up slowly. He doesn't know how she'll react to him, and it's best to take it easy. "I'm Elyon."

"Hi," she says, and she sounds shy. The reticence in her voice is learnt; he hears the faint enthusiasm beneath. That's not good.

Mikey shifts again, and then there's the sound of feet hitting wood. Elyon sits down on the floor.

"Who's that?" Flora asks, sounding far less sulky and more curious. She's always been interested in people, and she doesn't have a lot of friends her age because of her illness. (He's not certain what it is, exactly, but sometimes her blood pressure drops rapidly and she becomes very faint, so he prefers to keep a figurative eye on her. The saving grace is that she much prefers her books to sports, so he doesn't have to worry about her running off and getting hurt that way.

He still does, of course, but he's a father. That's just how it works.)

"Jae Yoon, this is Flora." Elyon points in Flora's general direction. "Flora, this is Jae Yoon."

"Your hair is cool," Flora says, instantly seizing the opportunity to get away from salve making. Jae Yoon doesn't make any upset noises about it, so Elyon lets Flora chatter and beckons Mikey over.

Mikey sits next to him, and his wiry frame bumps against Elyon. He's tall and quite agile; Elyon had tried to reason him out of pickpocketing but Mikey has a talent for it and always makes sure to choose people who can afford it. And the guard. Elyon encourages his guard-harrassing endeavours.

Mikey is silent for a while. Elyon waits patiently, hands looped together, until Mikey sighs and says, "I had to help her."

"Where're her parents?"

"Her mum's missing. Her dad got arrested for sedition. I was there."

"It just happened?"

"This morning."

"Why didn't the guard look after her?"

"They didn't know. A man tried to tell them but there wasn't a record and her dad denied it." Mikey sounds tense. Elyon puts a calming hand on the back of his neck, and the strained muscles there relax. "I think she was an accident, and he didn't even want her."

"I'll take her in." Elyon's got a bleeding heart, sue him.

Mikey laughs faintly, a sign of relief, and loops his arm around Elyon's neck. The position is awkward, so Elyon withdraws his and allows Mikey his moment. They never get moments to themselves, not even in Westfall, and - well, Mikey is his son. And a 19 year old boy. There's a certain amount of pride there.

He hears Jae Yoon laugh, and Flora make a particularly bald-faced claim about ogres, and smiles. Mikey shakes him a bit.

"Hey," Elyon says quietly, "how are you?"

"I'm good. Just frustrated. Here's so different, y'know?"

Mikey pauses.

"Did meet someone, though."

"Yeah?"

"Your friend, the blonde, she sent me on an errand the other day. Told me to find out where Hopetoun & Adelaide's was."

"The consultants?"

"Yeah." Mikey snorts. "There was only one, but the secretary was nice. Big fan of your novels."

Elyon gives him a flat stare, because Mikey _knows_ how much he hates the blighted things. Penny dreadfuls, all of them. They aren't something he wants to be known for, even if he had been able to get Mikey a proper jacket from the profits.

Mikey had insisted that he choose, because apparently Elyon's sense of fashion was 'appalling' and 'utterly lacking in appeal.' Elyon has an excuse, though, because he _is_ blind and there's only so much effort he's willing to go to.

And, anyway, his wardrobe consists of one (1) pair of boots, two (2) black turtlenecks, one (1) overcoat, one and a half (1 1/2) pairs of pants and three (3) long skirts. That's all he's owned for about three years now and no matter how much money Daniyah throws at him he's not going to spend it on himself.

Belinda, Elyon's second oldest, constantly lectures him about it, but he doesn't really listen. Belinda is a little too much like Scarlett for him to see it as anything other than endearing.

"I'm glad," he says sarcastically, and Mikey grins impishly. It's worth it just for that.

Suddenly, he hears pattering feet, and then there's a weight in his lap.

"Hello," he says gently, resting his hands on his knees. Jae Yoon makes herself comfortable, then launches into a rapid fire of words. He doesn't catch about 83% of it.

She tells him about chickens, and then about a secret garden, and how the apples on the tree taste noisy. He listens intently, nodding at appropriate intervals, and smiles as he hears Mikey begin to play patty cake with her.

She'll fit.

Not that Elyon's really that picky about who he adopts, but there's always the off chance that he'll get a child who's afraid of him, often by association. He doesn't like putting kids through more than he can avoid, so in those cases he introduces them to other people who he trusts and lets them make their own decisions.

But Jae Yoon isn't afraid of him, and she likes Mikey, and more importantly, Flora likes _her_ , which is a rare feat. She'll fit.

 

* * *

 

What he wasn't expecting, however, is that _Zuri_ likes her.

 

* * *

 

Elyon has a fair bit of contact with the intimidating battlemage. They stop by quite regularly, most often without Daniyah, which Elyon appreciates because he and Daniyah argue. A lot. And Zuri is not the sort to accommodate needless bickering.

It's a Thursday afternoon when they come in next. He's trying to sooth Jae Yoon out of a tantrum, because he heard that there was a collapse in one of the buildings nearby and he's expecting people to come through in need of a medic. Having an upset three year old will help no one.

"Elyon," announces Zuri, and then falls silent. Elyon looks up from where he's scolding Jae, and tilts his head.

Jae Yoon stops throwing her hissy fit, and dissolves into silence as well.

"Zuri," he says, prodding, inquiring. "Want something?"

"You have a child," Zuri says, and moves across to him. The cot next to him squeaks in protest as they sit.

"Uh, yeah, Zuri this is Jae Yoon. Jae, this is Zuri; they're one of Papa's friends."

Jae Yoon doesn't say anything, but he hears Zuri move and suddenly Jae is making awed noises, and he wonders what he's missing. There's none of the heat of a spell, nor the activity of something silly.

"Hello," Jae says, and Zuri rumbles something that Elyon doesn't catch. Jae Yoon laughs again.

Suddenly he feels Jae Yoon use him as a stepladder - which he doesn't mind, since Flora still does and Flora is a lot bigger - in order to vault towards Zuri. He almost reaches out to grab her, because some part of him is saying that maybe glomping Zuri is a fatal plan, but then Jae Yoon laughs again.

Whatever Zuri's doing, Jae likes it. He trusts them enough to trust them with Jae, and so he just goes back to arranging supplies and straightening cots.

A few minutes later, the door creaks with the rush of air that Elyon has come to recognise as heralding Mikey, and then Flora's chatter. There's the smell of salt; they've been to the docks. Mikey doesn't always tell him about his errands, because the majority are, in fact, illegal, but Elyon knows that Mikey isn't a big fan of the docks.

(He has the vague idea that Mikey's parents were sailors, and shipwrecked themselves on Longshore. The coast along Westfall is particularly treacherous, and there are wreckers, so it's not completely beyond the realms of possibility. And Mikey had been a street kid long before Elyon took him in. It's plausible.)

"Tatay?" Flora wanders over and yanks on his hand demandingly. She's going to turn into his own little fussbudget, he feels it in his bones. "What are they doing here?"

"What are they _doing?"_ Mikey asks, very quietly. Then pauses. "Elyon, they're - dear Light, I'm - sorry!"

Zuri makes a rumbling observation, and Jae Yoon's giggling pauses for half a moment, and then they're off again. Jae is laughing and now Mikey's laughing with her and Elyon resigns himself to confusion.

He doesn't have time to draw Mikey aside and ask, as the first responder hammers on his door, and he quickly moves over to throw it open and his afternoon away.

There are fewer wounded than he expected, and he's grateful whenever he has a moment to stop and think. But there are still at least half a dozen, and he and Mikey are pressed to help them all. For once, he wonders if Daniyah would have helped, were she here. If he asked her, she probably would have.

Then he remembers that people aren't supposed to know about the mistweaver thing, and wonders how she can value her pride over other peoples' lives.

There's a man with a broken leg, and a young woman with a horrendous gash in her bicep. He makes idle chatter with them as he focuses, Mikey hovering over his shoulder making what observations Elyon can't. The bandages are organised and on hand, Flora is busy in a corner with her mortar and pestle, and Elyon thinks it'll be okay. No one is so heavily injured that his first aid can't help them.

Not that broken leg man would know, given the fuss he kicks up.

"Should've gone to a proper healer," he says, right after Elyon has straightened the bone. He hears Mikey puff up in righteous indignation, and holds up a hand, because if he had a broken leg he might make disparaging comments too.

"You're here now," he says, "and you're gonna give that leg plenty of rest, y'hear me? A week, minimum."

"I've got a family to feed!"

"You'll be right. If there's ever a problem putting food on the table, come here, I'll sort something out."

He means it. If he puts the word out, then the Jacksons will never have eaten so well as they will that week. Elyon's word means a lot.

He misses Westfall.

Later, when the heat of the spring day is fading into the cool night, he escorts the last patient out the door, and then shuts it and leans back against it with a sigh.

But he still needs to make dinner for the kids, and coerce Jae Yoon into actually sleeping for once, so he straightens and brushes himself down.

"Where's the others?" he asks Mikey quietly, unwinding the bandages from his hands. Elyon doesn't have any gloves, so he makes do.

"Filipe's off with Alex. I don't know where Belinda is. She can look after herself."

Belinda is Elyon's second oldest; she's sixteen now, and like Mikey, she was with Elyon back in Westfall. Unlike Mikey, she left before Elyon. Signed herself up for guard training when she was fifteen and never looked back.

Elyon loves her dearly, but she and Mikey have always clashed, so sometimes it's best that Belinda left. Now, she has her own bunk in the barracks, and Mikey stays with him, but she still comes over every other day.

She's Elyon's daughter, and she's still only sixteen. He welcomes her with open arms, and sends Mikey off on errands.

He nods, and passes Mikey the bandages, before moving over to the fireplace to start on whatever he can reasonably label dinner. It's probably going to be stew. It's always stew. At least Daniyah's realised, and started leaving spices all over the house. Now it tastes of cumin, allspice, and privilege.

"Elyon," says Zuri from behind him, and he startles, almost cutting his finger off instead of the carrot. He had completely forgotten they were there. "You're tired."

"I'm always tired," he says dryly, going back to his chopping. The knife is a little dull, he can feel it in the way the blade pauses before sinking into the fibre. He feels around for the cold metal of the whetstone and begins brushing it along the knife in long, even strokes. "But thanks for noticing."

Zuri hesitates. He knows it's hesitation, not a pause, because the tone of their next words is slightly off. Their Darkshire drawl spreads across the vowels like sand. "If you're tired, you should sleep."

"Do you?"

"Not now."

"Then don't tell me to."

"In a few months I will. All the time."

He goes back to chopping. "Must be nice."

"No."

"Yeah, that was sarcasm."

Zuri sighs and stands, and Jae makes disappointed chatter before Flora swoops off with her. It's interesting to hear the immediate dynamics that form, Elyon's always thought. Mikey and Belinda used to be inseparable.

Suddenly there is a hand taking the knife from his, and then he's bodily picked up and being moved over to Light knows where.

"Hey," he snaps, and raps on Zuri's bicep. "Let me down before I make you."

"Can Mikey cook?"

"What? Yeah, course he can."

"He will cook, I will watch Jae Yoon, you will sleep." Suddenly he hears a faint edge of wickedness, just a flash, in the way they laze through the phrases. "No houses will be burnt down. No sweets will be consumed."

"No dessert before dinner, you'll ruin your appetite."

Zuri doesn't respond, just drops him down on what he calls a bed and Daniyah calls an atrocity to humanity. "Go to sleep."

"I can't, Zuri, stop it - "

"I'll make you."

"Don't you dare."

There's a silence, then Zuri says, "Sleep, Eli."

He sighs through his nose and throws his legs over the side of the bed to stand, but suddenly hands are pushing him back.

"Elyon, go to sleep." It's Mikey. Elyon hears the reproach in his voice, and gives him a stern look, but Mikey's voice only gets more solid. Elyon's proud, but still annoyed. "You're tired. You work too hard. Go to sleep or Zuri will be - I don't know, intimidating?"

"Yes," Zuri says, and then there's a weight on his chest.

"I'm tired," says Jae Yoon, then flops over him. Flora climbs up on his other side and suddenly he finds himself being bullied into bed by his small, chattering fussbudgets. Flora makes herself comfortable in one corner of the mattress, taking out a well worn book and clearing her throat. Jae Yoon curls up and moves his arm so that it's hugging her appropriately. Jae is demanding.

He makes to get up, but suddenly Mikey sits on his chest, and says; "Flora, d'you want to read a bedtime story?"

"This one is 'The Mystery of the Crooked Staircase.'" Flora leaps into reading her novel, which, alright, Elyon admits is very advanced for her age and not badly written. Mikey obligingly does the voices when Flora shoves the book at him. Jae laughs. Zuri does something that has everyone laughing, which Elyon misses.

He smiles as Flora starts laughing between paragraphs, and Mikey eventually cracks up to. Jae Yoon starts laughing because everyone else is laughing, and he hears Zuri snort. Once. He'll take it.

His eyes slide shut.

Someone drapes a thin blanket over him, and he makes a token noise of disapproval, but he can feel Jae Yoon's quiet breathing, and Flora's sleep talking, and eventually he finds himself drifting off into a light doze.

He dreams, voices chattering and the fragments of a story. Mikey and Belinda bickering about nothing. He dreams of something - different, nicer, where Flora laughs and Mikey doesn't have to pickpocket. Where Filipe doesn't always disappear at random times. Where Jae Yoon won't grow up without an education, because Elyon can't afford it and he doesn't know how much he can teach her that will be accurate.

He's always wanted a better future. Not for himself - for Mikey, Belinda, Flora, Jae Yoon. For Filipe and Alex and all the kids that rely on him as the only family they have.

His mother wanted the same thing. She was with the Stonemasons Guild, originally, and had held staunchly to her beliefs even when she moved to Westfall, even when her already meagre salary dropped to a pittance. She told him, every day, that the only thing she wanted was a better future for him.

He understands that, now. He thought he understood it, back when he was twelve and uncertain and still learning about why his parents were who they were. But then events happened, as they did, and he grew up.

And then a little nine year old turned up at his doorstep, clinic newly opened and Elyon still trying to do everything at once, on his own. Mikey had picked his pocket, then passed him the herbs and said he wanted to know how to help.

Now Mikey's teaching Elyon things, and running errands, and bringing in little kids.

Elyon's proud.

But he's still so, so tired.

He wakes late, too late, and frowns at the ceiling as he tries to figure out what even happened.

"You slept," Mikey says cheerfully. He's sitting on the edge of the bed - Elyon can feel the dip in the mattress, or as Daniyah calls it, the Bed of Lies.

"I did?" It was meant to be a statement.

"Yeah. For like, thirteen hours."

He blinks.

"What time is it?"

"Nine."

He blinks, once more for good luck, then rubs the sleep from his eyes and feels around for his glasses.

"Nuh uh." He hears a faint click, which is probably Mikey putting on said glasses because he's annoying like that. "C'mon, another hour won't hurt. Flora's out with Filipe, Belinda's watching them. Zuri is taking care of Jae Yoon. There's no one here, they all want you to get some rest."

"I just slept for _thirteen_ _hours_ , Mikey. Let me up."

Mikey whistles like the imp he is and Elyon hears the rustle of pages turning.

"Mikey..."

"Look." Mikey puts his hand on Elyon's head. As in, over his face. Mikey's a bit of an ass. "You're tired. We just..."

He pauses, and then laughs.

"Guess we just want to look after you, y'know."

There's a long moment where Elyon doesn't quite know what to say, because that's... not how it's supposed to be. Mikey's not supposed to worry about him. His kids aren't supposed to worry about him. Elyon does enough worrying for the entire family.

"Mikey, you don't have to worry."

"I know." He sounds nonchalant. "But you're my dad, and no offense, but... you kinda do a lot of stupid shit. And, I don't know, I just don't think it's fair that you can spend all your time doing everything for other people and then tell us not to worry."

Elyon sits up, shooing Mikey's hand away, and then draws him in for a hug.

Mikey stiffens, because there's nothing more embarrassing than having a Family Bonding Moment with your dad when all you wanted to do was read comic books and convince him to get some sleep.

"Alright, alright." Elyon can hear the crooked grin in his voice, and pats his cheeks just to make sure. Mikey laughs. "Get off, you're embarrassing me."

"Aren't there some bandages that need folding?"

Mikey scowls, and Elyon smiles faintly.

"Hey, Mikey?"

"Don't say it - "

"I'm not gonna say it. But, listen. If anything happens to me, I want you to look after the kids, alright? I've got some savings, somewhere, if you want to try and start something else. But - "

"Elyon," Mikey laughs, "they're my siblings. And you're not going anywhere."

"I can't promise that."

"Doesn't make it less true."

Elyon thinks of his mother, and nods.

"Alright."

"Good." Mikey waves his comic book, the paper rustling loudly. "Now I've gotta figure out what happens to Booky Thompson and the crew, so you're going back to sleep 'til I finish this."

Elyon groans, but lowers himself gingerly back down again; then pauses.

"What was Zuri doing yesterday that had Jae in stitches?"

"Oh, that?" Mikey laughs and throws his legs up onto the cot. They don't fit. Elyon scootches over a little more. "Pulling faces. Peekaboo."

Elyon stares at the darkness for a long, long, while, until he accepts the inevitable heat death of the universe, and falls back to sleep, laughing softly all the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its not quite sadfic but dont go thinking this is happy either. dont do that to yourself. dont.


	8. It's In The Little Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ev learns how to tie his stupid cravat and Daniyah is surprisingly perceptive

"Hey, listen, Ev?"

He looks up, and raises what he calls eyebrows and Daniyah seems to delight in calling Singed Monstrosities. Which is fair. That he even has any amount of them left is impressive, what with the alchemy and the pyromania and the six-year-old.

"Yeah?"

"I've got a proposition for you."

They're at Daniyah's, in the Nice sitting room, where Ev doesn't feel quite so bad about sitting in the chairs and potentially getting them sooty and gross. He's on the couch, journal out, and Daniyah is sprawled across his legs, half-asleep. They've finished off about half a bottle of vodka between them, and they're just at that happy level of tipsy that means they're still vaguely thoughtful, but not worrying. It's a nice feeling.

Daniyah didn't really invite him over, and he didn't really invite himself over. It was sort of a mutual agreement of, oh, yeah, this is just a thing that's going to happen. And after the mess with Jinzahl - wow, does Ev regret letting that happen, that was possibly a bad decision on both their parts - it's nice to take a step back for a moment and. You know. Not worry about a possible Daniyah panic or Everitt disaster.

Ev shifts in his seat, and Daniyah somehow manages to make herself _heavier_ , just to spite him. "Is it a, you know, good proposition? Or a revenge proposition. Because I'm really sorry, about the whole thing."

"What? Oh, don't be ridiculous, that's been and gone." She rolls over and pouts up at him. "Besides, would I do that? Do you not trust me? Everett, after all we've been through, you're going to say things like that? I'm - I'm so betrayed!"

He snort-laughs, and she grins back, and laughs as he says, "Yeah. Sorry."

"Touché. No, but truly, this is a brilliant idea and you're going to love it."

"Does it involve explosions?"

"What have I said about the explosions?"

"You did only say not in the house, I mean, we could explode elsewhere?"

"No exploding." She bats at his journal, so he puts it on her forehead and goes back to writing. The journal is sacred, okay. It is important and it is not to be used as a tool in a petty - yeah, alright, he may smush it into her nose just a little bit. Just to get the point across.

"Right, so, my grand idea." Her voice is a little muffled, until she scoots up a little further and props herself on her elbows. He shifts the journal down to rest it on her chest, and tilts his head at her. "You need some shirts that don't have long sleeves. No, hush, let me finish. House shirts. I've seen you rolling your sleeves up - which you don't even do right, and sweet thing, that cravat is a disgrace - and while some friends may let it slide, I will not. I refuse to. You could be _ever_ so stunning, if you just let me put in some effort for you."

Ev does his best impression of a guppy for a few seconds, then flushes to the tips of his ears. Daniyah makes a cooing nose and boops his nose, but even swatting her away doesn't get rid of the red, or stop him from instinctively tugging at his sleeves.

See, Ev _likes_ his sleeves. They're nice sleeves. They do what sleeves should do - that is, hide his arms - and they do it very well. Yeah, he sometimes rolls them up at home, but that's just a temporary thing, it's not - he doesn't need -

Then Daniyah's pouting at him, with that look in her eye that lets him know that despite the glamour, she's dead serious. He keeps fiddling, his green pen coming to rest between the pages of his journal, and meets her gaze.

"You know I don't like short sleeves."

"I know." She blows a curl out of her eyes. "But I also know that when you answered the door the other day, your sleeves were rolled up."

"Yeah, but..."

But that's different. He still has the option, the choice, to roll them down again. To hide. It's comforting, even if he doesn't, actually, roll them down. Not around Ben, around Ruth and Gen. Not around Scarlett.

Not around Daniyah.

She suddenly pushes up at the journal, and he obligingly takes it off, setting it between her shoulder and the back of the sofa. She pats his cheek with a little snicker, then hitches up her skirt.

"Dani!"

"Oh, hush, you, you're a big boy." She pokes his arm with her free hand. "Well, tall, at least. You've been eating the baklava?"

Kind of. He's been eating a bit of it. Ruth seems to have taken a liking to it and has called something of a monopoly on it and further baklava donations. Besides, he's _always_ been skinny, so Daniyah shoving food at him isn't going to change that. 

But Daniyah clearly doesn't expect an answer, as she just sails on. "See this lovely little thing?" 

He frowns at her, then leans back a bit to look at where she's pointing. His eyes widen; there's a large area of skin on the side of her upper thigh where a burn scar radiates out, pale against brown, just like the ones twining up and along his arms. He unconsciously tugs at his own sleeves, down and over his hands, fingers running over the rough cotton in twitchy, repetitive movements.

He flicks his gaze up to hers. Ev's clever. Ev knows he's clever, even if doubt does sway his judgement of precisely _how_ clever, and he knows that Daniyah is all too aware of that. Because Daniyah goes to Ev when she has Ben questions and Scarlett questions and Elyon questions; because she knows Ev's perceptive. Because Daniyah can be clever, too, on occasion.

She knows that this is giving him more puzzle pieces to the mystery of who she is.

But she's doing it anyway, and Ev smiles, faintly, even as his fingers twist in fabric.

"It's very lovely," he replies, and she laughs. She traces the vaguely elliptical shape with a purple and gold nail, then tugs her skirt down again. Now that Ev's aware of it, the skirt almost doesn't cover it. But - and here he begins to understand the brilliance of Daniyah's clothing choices - the skirt is bright enough and her shirt low cut enough that no one actually notices the pale scars poking out below.

He pauses, wondering whether to push or not, and deciding against it. "You want me to wear pencil skirts?"

Daniyah stares, then cackles, a sound she _definitely_ learnt from Zuri. Ev really does try not to, but he ends up giggling along with her.

"No, darling, I want you to trust me."

"I can't - you know, wear your kind of clothes, Dani." For one, he is not filthy rich, and two, they'd be utterly wasted on him.

"Oh, I know," she replies cheerfully, and reaches over to retie his cravat. "I don't expect you to. But at least let me get some new shirts for you, and really, darling heart, learn to roll up your sleeves properly. I already put up with Elyon making a mess of it, don't you do the same."

"Alright, how do I do it properly?"

She beams at him, and he beams back, obligingly. He holds out his arm and elbow, and she sits up properly, making him let out a little _ouf_ at the sudden weight on his thighs. Daniyah weighs more than he does, he's sure of it, even with the height difference.

"Alright, first, you need to stop with the shoving." She mimics the movement with his sleeve. "It's really quite atrocious, and it will ruin your shirts, so please, stop. You are to _fold_ the sleeve. Say it with me. _Fold_."

"Fold." 

"Atta boy. Now, this is the most common fold." She folds it once, all the way up to his elbow, then back again so the cuff is poking out. He watches, and nods. "That is how you fold a sleeve. Ornamentation and unnecessary versions aside, that is how you should be doing this. Now, curl your elbow."

He does, and stares, because the cuff tightens around his elbow and makes his lower arm seem - less bony, more wiry, more like there's muscle there and not air. More... masculine. He looks back to her, and she smirks faintly.

"You see?"

He does it a few more times, just because it's so different. He barely notices his scars, barely notices the slightly frayed stitching, barely notices the shift of fabric. His eyes rest on the movement of his muscles and the way the shirt makes them seem... _right_. 

"Dani - "

"Shh." She makes a funny gesture with her fingers, like a clip snapping shut, and he obligingly purses his lips. "And remember, it's at the elbow. No lower, no higher. Let me see you do it on the other sleeve."

He does, and then flexes, and it's only semi facetiously. She applauds nonetheless, and he tosses his pen at her. It gets caught in her curls.

The sleeves are uneven, and it will take some repetition before he can get folds as crisp and easy as Daniyah's, but _Light_ , does it make a difference.

"And!" She taps his chin, and he follows her hands as they untie his mess of a cravat. "This horrible old thing. Either tie it right, or leave it off, stop inflicting this awful monstrosity on my eyeballs, alright?"

"Thanks."

"You're quite welcome." She laughs, and pats his cheek. "Right, so, I'll show you two - my younger brother has a thing for ties and if you're _really_ desperate to shake things up again I'm sure he could teach you, but for the moment, let's just do the basics." 

She makes herself comfortable, and Ev resigns himself to the fact that they're probably going to be here a while. Not that he doesn't appreciate it. But Daniyah's probably still going to be straightening and retying his cravat constantly anyway, so why she bothers trying to teach him is something of a mystery.

(He is, also, somewhat fond of Daniyah's fastidious streak. He's grown used to her small hands coming up to straighten him out, and the faint lilt to her scolding that broadcasts her amusement. She's endlessly affectionate, and he's starting to believe it, too. She adores him, and he adores her straight back in return.)

They spend a solid twenty minutes tying and untying the scrap of fabric, until Ev's quite sure he's never going to put it on again, but then Daniyah is beaming and smooching his cheeks and he's laughing and yes, there's the perfect knot.

"See?"

He sits back, and peers down at the cloth around his neck, then looks back at her and grins broadly. "Yeah, I - yeah."

She pats his cheek, and rolls off him, but overestimates the width of the couch and falls off, hitting the floor with a painful thunk that has him cringing.

"I'm okay!" A wheeze. "Dying, but okay."

He leans over, though, just in case, and he swears to the Light that Daniyah must have planned it because she sits up at just the right moment to smooch him straight on the mouth and send him reeling back making disgusted noises.

"No one appreciates me!" she pouts, trying not to laugh as he runs childish hands across his face and sputters. "Hey, stop that, I'm a good kisser!"

"Dani, no!"

"You don't think I'm a good kisser? Excuse you! After that stunt you pulled during Love Is In The Air you should be _grateful_ that I deigned to even _approach_ you!"

"I didn't mean it!"

"You so did!" She tumbles forward, and Ev shoves a palm out to catch her in the chest and send her back to the floor. She laughs, and he flops, before grinning back and rescuing his journal. "You're so _mean_ to me, Ev! I thought we had something special."

"I'm sorry, Dani, but my heart belongs to Meredith." He scratches the back of his neck and laughs. She falls back dramatically and whines, and he pats her knee. "There, there?"

"I'm going to die alone." 

"Sorry. I can get you a Nightmare Vine...?"

"Kaylee would set it then me on fire, but thank you for the offer."

"You're welcome. Thanks for..."

"Don't mention it."

And he knows she means it.

He doesn't know whether it's a good thing, or not.


	9. A Sword and a Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mikey is a damsel in distress, and he don't got this. Early Cataclysm.

"H-Hey! P-put him d-down!"

Mikey's head shoots up at the yell, and it's good he did, because it narrowly evades the punch that would have socked him in the eye. Isaya, the puncher, looks around; Mikey takes advantage of the distraction to squirm futilely. The wall at his back is unforgiving, though, and the best he can do is loosen Isaya's hold on his shirt.

Belinda's there, because Belinda has a nose for trouble even better than Mikey's. She's got her hands on Elyon's sword, and she's holding it nervously, but Mikey knows Belinda. He knows that when her feet are apart, stance solid and grounding, she's about to start a fight. Mikey doesn't like fights. He'd much prefer arguing, dancing around someone with words, than getting hit. (Which is usually why people like Isaya resort to fists.)

"What're you doing?" she demands, stammer gone, knuckles white. Isaya pulls a face.

"What's it look like?" He shakes Mikey with his grip on Mikey's poor, fraying collar. "He was being a little shit!"

"Put him down!"

"You wanna go?"

Belinda raises the sword, and Mikey gulps, because he doesn't actually know how well she can use it. It's no training sword: it's three feet of sharp steel, that Elyon usually keeps a figuratively close eye on. It's certainly nothing for a kid to be holding as if she knows what to do.

"Lindsey," he starts, but loses his breath in a _whoof_ as Isaya drops him. Isaya's a pretty standard bully, a year younger than Mikey, going through his over-compensating phase. (Mikey used to be friends with him, but. Those days are very much over, apparently, and it's really mostly his fault, if he's honest.)

"You don't know how to use that." It's said as a statement, but Isaya sounds a bit unsure. "You'll chop a foot off."

Given that the sword is over half her height, it's a fair warning. Isaya's always been generous like that, just bad tempered; kind of like Belinda.

Belinda frowns further, scowl too old for her face, and falls into - shit. That's actually a proper offensive stance. Mikey sits up, and rubs his collar, wondering whether he should try to step in. He'd just get his ass beat again.

"Stop b-bullying him," she says, "it's against the rules."

"He was sassing me!" Isaya isn't being threatening. He's getting defensive; Mikey's at least glad that he's not such an asshole as to try to punch a twelve year old, even if that twelve year old has a sword. (That's probably a big factor, though. Belinda is... he doesn't want to use the word, because that would give her too much Whatever, but she looks intimidating.)

"Ignore him!"

"He wouldn't shut up!"

"T-try harder!"

Isaya lurches forward, but Belinda swings the sword, and it slices a hairsbreadth away from Isaya's arm. He yanks it back, quick as a flash, and she drops into a defensive posture.

"That's a - a warning," she snaps, and he stares at her. Mikey does, too. "Go home, Isaya."

Isaya gives her one last, unreadable look, then kicks at Mikey for good luck and hurries off back into Sentinel Hill. Mikey stands up, wheezing a little, and rubs his stomach.

Belinda drops the sword, and rushes over, batting his hands away so she can look at him. He laughs, because _he's_ the one who wants to be a medic, not _her_ , but she doesn't stop.

"Lindsey, bugger off."

"What was h-he bullying you for?" She yanks him down by the arm to make sure his throat isn't bruised. "Were you starting shit again?"

"No!"

"Then why?"

Mikey shoves her off him, and she folds her arms, glaring up at him for a minute before spinning to go pick up Elyon's sword. He straightens his shirt, and wipes his mouth, and kicks a foot in the dirt.

"None of your shit," he says, and glares back. "Where'd you get Elyon's sword?"

"It was by the d-door." She holds it awkwardly, now, because there's no sheath. He rubs his forehead. "Why were you fighting?"

"Because shut up." He drops his hands to her shoulders and begins steering her back towards Moonbrook, because she shouldn't be this far out and what was she even doing here? Sentinel Hill is a full day trip.

She shoves his hands off and waves the sword around vaguely enough that he leaps away and leaves a few feet between them. Yeah, Elyon's going to be having a -

He hunches his shoulders, and sticks his hands in his pockets. No, it won't be Elyon. It'll be Niv, the Asshole. He's pretty much taken up residence in the house, and while Elyon steadfastly refuses to move from Moonbrook, Mikey's real close to dragging him away by the coat. His gaze flits to Belinda again.

"What're you doing here?"

"Saving you." She lets the sword tip drag along the ground, and Mikey scowls.

"I mean in Sentinel Hill."

"I just told you!"

"Yeah, but - " He huffs, and glares at her. "You're lying. Did you follow me?"

"N-no!"

"Then why?"

She curls in, her other hand coming up to hold her elbow. Mikey knows that posture well. Elyon's usually better at getting her to unfurl, but Mikey's been doing it more and more lately. Not out of any particular sense of obligation, but he and Belinda are the only two rational people left in the house anymore, and usually she curls up when that sensible streak is being shoved down.

"M-my - my m-mom is..."

Well, shit.

Just what none of them need. Belinda's mom is... Mikey's only met her once, because she rocked up at their door and Elyon very swiftly sent her packing, but he gathers that she's persistent. A pirate's sense of possession, perhaps.

"In Moonbrook?"

A tiny nod.

"Fuck." He runs a hand through his hair. "You can't run away to Sentinel Hill, Lindsey, Elyon'll have a heart attack."

"But - "

"No. Just stay at home. I'll send her away."

"N-Niv already..."

His blood runs cold, and he whirls on her. She twitches, but doesn't flinch away. His hands find her shoulders again. "Niv let her in?"

"Y-yeah, he s-said he'd g-give - give - "

Mikey is actually going to _murder_ that sorry son of a bitch. He is. Fuck what Elyon thinks, he's sick and tired and scared of Niv's poisonous words. Belinda's not going back to her mom, and Niv can't get rid of her like that.

"Does Elyon know?"

"I don't know!" She whacks one of his hands away. "I wasn't g-gonna stay, moron!"

She's got a point. He groans, and rubs his eyes, shoulders slumping. He doesn't know what to do. He can't do what he wants and he doesn't know how else he's supposed to fix all this. And he shouldn't have to!

He's fifteen, for fuck's sake. Belinda's not even a teenager yet. It's bullshit.

"Y-yeah," Belinda says, and he realises he said that last bit out loud. "Yeah, it is."

He sighs, and throws his arm around her shoulders - thankfully from the side that isn't sharp and pointy. Her stubby ponytail gets caught, a tickling itch, so he reaches over with his other hand to tug it out.

"It'll be right. I'll kick your mom's ass."

"You can't."

"I'll cheer you on as you kick your mom's ass."

She huffs out what he thinks could be a laugh, so he grins and shakes her a little. He'll take what he can get.

That's what they've lived on so far, so they may as well keep it up.


	10. Once On A Summer's Afternoon A Traveller...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the Meirs have a singularly interesting patient. Early Cataclysm.

"Find Elyon!"

"Fuck, shit man this looks bad."

"Stop lollygagging, dude's bleeding out. Where's the medic?"

Mikey jumps, as a hand lands on his shoulder, and he looks up at the woman. She nods at him seriously, so he wrenches his gaze away from the bloodied mess of a man in the middle of the street, and launches into a sprint back to the house.

Moonbrook is bustling these days, but not in the good way. Elyon explained to him that it was because of the war in Northrend; the defense budget was so large that it ended up consuming most of Stormwind's resources, resulting in an economic crash. Mikey knows this to be true, because he sees homeless people enter Moonbrook daily. It's a sick cycle.

He hates Stormwind, and he hopes he never has to go there.

He darts through the crowd and bystanders, boots hitting the dust light enough to barely make a puff. People recognise him easily - Elyon's boy, the runner, 'that kid that stole my wallet' - and part to make way. He has to let Elyon know that there's going to be a serious patient shortly, so that Elyon's prepared.

Man, that guy looked fucked up. He glances back, quickly, but his vision is obscured. It's probably for the best; he at _least_ had his legs broken, and his face had two beautiful black eyes, and there were knife marks in his jerkin. Mikey winces thinking about it, and curses his stomach as it roils. He's a medic's assistant, he can't get queasy about the more bloody cases.

He passes the inn, then dives down the opposing street, and exhales in relief as his house comes into view. Technically, it's not his, nor Elyon's, but no property in Moonbrook is really owned anymore. It's share and share alike, a little community united by a common fate. But Elyon is their only medic, the closest thing to a doctor many of them will see, so he gets a house for himself and his family, and space enough on the first floor for an emergency room of sorts.

The door is open, as usual, and he barrels in, kicking his boots into the corner as he moves. Elyon is bandaging a woman's ankle, hands steady, and murmuring something to her in Arathi. She responds, just as quietly, and looks up at Mikey's approach.

"There's a man, real beat up, they're bringing him now," he blurts. "He's - Elyon, it's bad."

Elyon tilts his head in Mikey's direction, and nods. Mikey has lived with Elyon for seven years, ish, but he still sometimes gets a little nonplussed by Elyon's eyes. It's really only times like these when he notices, though; when Elyon's brows are serious, but eyes are vacant.

"How bad?"

"Broken legs, bruises, knife wounds."

Elyon nods, and looks back at the Arathi woman, who stands gingerly and accepts his offered arm. He escorts her to the door, but as soon as she's gone, whirls and sets to work.

Mikey does what he can, which is mostly staying out of the way. He grabs the herbs Elyon tells him to, and relights the fire, sparks leaping joyously at the dry kindling. The ever-present pot of water begins to warm and boil, perfect for sterilising needles and warming washcloths.

There's a shifting sound from the stairs, and Mikey looks up to see Belinda poking her head over the rail. Her hair is a mess - she must've just woken up. Belinda likes to wake early, but she still naps, a lot. Given that it's mid-afternoon, that's a safe bet. 

"Lindsey?" Elyon waves vaguely, and she jogs down. "I need you to be my legs. Mikey, you're my eyes. If something goes wrong, you need to be on alert."

"Yes, sir," says Belinda, and darts back upstairs, no doubt to replace her shirt. Most people don't care what anyone wears, but in the house, Elyon's adamant about clean clothes. It's hygiene, or something. Mikey hadn't listened.

There's the sounds of people, outside, then a pair come in carrying the sorry son of a bitch. He looks even worse out of the harsh Westfall sun; sallow and ill and very, very injured.

Elyon directs easily, voice firm and lilt strong. He always sounds more foreign when he's ordering people about, but Mikey likes it. It singles Elyon out, above all the chattering Stormwinder accents, and that's a lot more useful than people realise. Everyone knows when Elyon's talking.

"We don't have a name," says Heloise, one of the more active volunteers. She does a lot of house painting and repairs for the most dilapidated places. "He was found down the road, Jaime went to ask if he was alright, and he passed out."

"I see." Elyon passes the scissors to Mikey, who sets to work getting rid of the remains of the man's jerkin and pants. There's not much - he's been walking through the country for a while. "No clue why he's here?"

"None."

Heloise turns, and begins to shoo people out of the house, and Elyon moves back around to inspect the man. Mikey watches out of the corner of his eye, as he starts wetting cloth. Elyon's process is peculiar; he briefly maps out the man's body, head to shoulders to hips to feet, then starts investigating. His hands are wrapped in gauze. Disposable gloves are nigh impossible to find, and washable ones retain too much fluid.

"His worst bruising is on his face," Mikey says, because he knows that's one of the things Elyon does sometimes have trouble with. Bruises feel different, he knows, but the colour of the skin is an easier indication of their age and quality. "There's some on his chest, too, but mostly knife wounds."

"How many?" 

"Slashes?"

"Yeah." 

"Um..." Mikey counts quickly, and settles on, "five. Upper chest."

Elyon nods, and his hands brush clinically across. The blood is dry, but that's not necessarily a good thing. There's no easy way to tell how much blood the man's lost already, and given the state of his jerkin, it's going to be too much.

Belinda appears at the top of the stairs again, and Mikey waves her down this time.

"We need to get him clean, first." Elyon rattles of instructions simply and earnestly. There isn't a trace of fear in his voice. "Lindsey, can you find me a double bruiseweed-briarthorn? Mikey, I need you to keep passing me cloths."

They both chirp out an agreement in unison, and while Belinda nods, Mikey doesn't bother.

To Mikey, cleaning the patient up is always the most nerve-wracking, because he's never sure how much time they have. But Elyon insists on it, every time, with the same calm demeanour, and slowly Mikey's getting used to it. No one's died yet - not on Elyon's cots. At least, not that Mikey knows about, but he's trying to be optimistic. His dad can save everyone. His dad saved him, and Belinda, and someday Mikey's going to return the favour.

They set the man's legs, and he twitches, but thankfully doesn't wake. Belinda has to make her potion from scratch, which she's never been good at because she can't get the more complex ratios right, but the one Elyon asked for is simple. It'll give the man's - Mikey forgets the word Elyon used, but it's the part of the body that fights off disease - a boost. It keeps people alive, through more difficult procedures, and gives Belinda time to carefully measure out a stronger healing potion in between fetching Elyon and Mikey supplies.

Elyon does the stitches. He never lets Mikey, even though Mikey wants to learn. He's not sure why. But Elyon's slim fingers are steady as he stitches, rhythmic and precise, intervals perfect. He uses his finger to measure, each stitch a fingertip away from the next. Mikey sometimes tries, closes his eyes and pretends to stitch, but he can't do it. There are some things he'll never understand, not really.

So, they somehow manage to get the man into decent looking shape, clean and much less bloody and with tiny black stitches across his chest. His legs are straightened, splinted against thin sticks of wood, and Mikey bites his lip each time his eyes are drawn to them. The man is a _mess._

But, now, an alive mess. That's good. That's real good.

Belinda creeps up next to Elyon, and tucks herself under his arm. Mikey wipes his brow with a spare scrap of cloth, and loops it around one of his suspenders.

"And now we wait," Elyon says, unwinding the gauze from his hands, and gazing at the wall steadily. Mikey looks at the floor, then looks at Belinda, and back at the man.

Now, they wait.

It's evening when the man stirs. Mikey cooks tonight, because Elyon's busy upstairs with Belinda, having their usual quiet Wednesday chats. Wednesday and Saturday are Belinda nights, and Monday and Thursday are Mikey nights. The others are for whoever stumbles through the house and asks for counselling, a talk, some time to get things off their chest. It's nice, Mikey guesses, but it does mean he has to cook.

Given that Mikey's repertoire of recipes totals to about six, it means they're generally eating the same things a lot. Tonight it's miso. Again. Sue him, there's good wakame offshore, he's not going to waste it.

There's a shuffling noise as he looks up from where he has his feet on a stool, hands fiddling idly with a piece of string. The man's head moves, and he lets out a little moan.

"Elyon!" Mikey calls, loud enough to reach but not so loud as to startle the man awake. "He's waking up."

A pause, and the soft step of feet, first Elyon then Belinda. She darts behind Mikey, wary eyes fixed on the man's face, as Elyon makes his way over to the box stool next to the cot.

The silence is long, until eventually the man's eyes flicker open, and his gaze looks blearily around. Mikey leans forward. Belinda leans back.

Elyon remains.

"Where'm I?" slurs the man, and Elyon hushes him.

"You're in Moonbrook," he says, voice soft, "and I'm the local healer. My name is Elyon, and this is my house."

The man tries to sit up, and Mikey puts a hand to his chest, careful of the stitched wounds. "I - "

"Don't try to move too much. You were very injured."

He slumps back, then looks at Mikey and Belinda. Belinda slips behind Mikey a little further, and he smiles to make up for her shyness.

"These are my children," Elyon adds, guessing correctly the source of the pause. "Mikey, and Belinda. What's your name?"

"Niv," says the man, looking up at Elyon. A smile dawns, very slowly. Without the bruising, Niv would be a very handsome man. "Niv Levine."

He has the same accent as Elyon.

Elyon smiles, and reaches out to pat Niv's arm, before he says, "Mikey, is there enough food for Niv as well?"

The honest answer is no, but the correct answer is yes, so Mikey pulls out another bowl. It's pretty standard that their meals get stretched to accommodate others; if not patients, then street kids or desperate folk in dire need of a meal. Belinda had joined their little family through a single meal, so Mikey's not going to knock it.

Niv is propped up on one of the other threadbare pillows from a neighbouring bed, as Mikey ladles out the soup. Niv's lucky his arms are fine; Mikey's not really into spoon feeding people, unless they're babies. Mikey likes babies.

"What happened?" Elyon asks, and Niv sighs a little. He doesn't stiffen, though, so Mikey's pretty sure it's not going to be too bad. "Those wounds were... unlike anything I've ever seen."

"I doubt you've seen very much," Niv replies, and grins. The laughter is evident in his voice. "You're blind, right?"

Elyon snorts, faintly. "Yes." It's not something he hides, nor something that's difficult to ascertain. Elyon's glasses have been sitting in his drawer for weeks. Everyone in Moonbrook knows the blind medic, and he's got something of a reputation, now. Sure, there are people who think it's creepy, but frankly, Mikey doesn't give a fuck. If people want to make decisions and judgements based on Elyon's disability, Mikey'll send Belinda after their asses himself. 

He's not going to do it himself. He's fast, not strong.

"A couple militia thugs." Niv prods one eye gently, and winces. "I was coming from Sentinel Hill - they've shut it down, unless you've coin - and they thought I stole my bag."

He pauses, and looks down. His fists clench in the thin blanket.

"It was my mother's. All I had left; didn't want to sell it. They thought it was too expensive. So..."

Mikey looks up to Elyon, and almost rolls his eyes. Elyon's got that tilt to his mouth that says he's doing that Empathetic thing again, which is annoying because it almost always means Mikey has to do the dishes. 

"Sentinel Hill is a disgrace," Elyon says, but while the words are harsh his voice is soft. "I'll see what I can do to get your bag back. Now, you're hurt, and I can give you something for the pain but it'll put you to sleep."

Niv nods, and Belinda says quietly, "He n-nodded."

Mikey's a little reassured when Niv looks briefly guilty, because people tend to nod and shake their heads around Elyon then get irritated when he, obviously, fails to respond. Belinda's better at translating. Mikey's still remembering to do so.

"Alright. Belinda, can you get me - "

But Belinda's already off towards the cupboard, footsteps almost silent, but when Mikey puts his bare foot on the floor he can feel the vibrations. Elyon stands, and makes his way over to where Mikey always puts the bowls, and counts them with a brush of his fingers.

They eat together, Elyon and Niv, exchanging quiet grown up talk while Mikey and Belinda disappear up the stairs with their bowls to watch through the rails. Belinda perches three steps above Mikey, as if to make up for height, and Mikey peers through the banisters. Niv seems nice enough. With two broken legs - honestly, how the fuck does that even happen - it's probable that he'll be here a while.

"I don't like him," Belinda says, and Mikey snorts.

"You're being stupid. Look, Elyon's smiling, for real. He's alright."

"I don't like him."

He rolls his eyes, then stands, jogging up past her and up the last few stairs. Belinda follows, quick-sticks, and throws herself onto her rickety old bed. Mikey's is next to it, and he sets the bowls on the floor beside it before falling in. 

Belinda has her thin blanket up to her neck, and her eyes are on Mikey's when he glances over. He raises his eyebrows curiously, but she just shakes her head, pulling the blanket up a little further. Honestly, he doesn't understand her. But, whatever makes her happy. She does this, sometimes; hides beneath her blanket and refuses to come out until Elyon slips under with her and they have a muffled chat.

Mikey doesn't get it, not really, but. He lets them have their talks. After all, he sometimes runs off to Longshore and sits in the surf for hours on end, just in case.

Just in case. 

He sighs, and stares at the ceiling. Just another day. Tomorrow'll probably be the same. But so long as Moonbrook's safe, Moonbrook's home, he'll take it.


	11. A Reflection on Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daniyah waxes philosophical about thoughts, and her music.

Music is... personal.

Daniyah has never shared it, not really. She doesn't talk about it with her friends - mostly because the few she has aren't particularly interested in the topic, as far as she's aware - and she sure as fel never plays around her family. It's something she does, for herself, and to amuse idle tavern goers when the mood strikes.

Her favourite instrument is her flute. She will merrily warble away at strange hours, playing anything from scales to sonatas, with no thought for anything other than the melody. She's never really gone out of practice with it, either; the helpful thing about a flute is that it can travel. In her bags through Pandaria, through Draenor, through trials and tribulations. It's been with her.

She's not too bad at the piccolo either, and likes to make shrill, awful little ditties on it that she plays with her window wide open. If it happens to be the same time her horrible neighbour airs his linens, then that's just a coincidence. She's a good person. Most of the time. (He really is a grump and a bore and horrendously rude.)

Her kazoo is for irritating people, only. Zuri tends to get the brunt of it. They've threatened to snap it more than once, but Daniyah plays a bit of smooth jazz and they get over it. Or their brain melts and they no longer see the point. Either works.

Clarinet is another, although she can't quite play it that well anymore. It takes more effort than she's willing to spend on practice, when she could be playing other instruments, but she knows her way around it well enough. She used to be able to play a good reel on it, but she's vastly out of practice now. Her fingers can't remember the placings fast enough, let alone for something so quick, but it's fine to pick it up sometimes and fiddle.

Amusingly, and very much out of the pattern, she can also play the harp. Not well, because she never quite got the hang of playing chords, but she can hold herself up to whatever standards people have these days. It had been one of the first she'd learnt, after her flute, because she'd been enraptured by the sound of a street performer on a little lyre and become determined to echo it herself. Of course, it's terribly difficult to learn a lyre, and there isn't quite the same range, so she picked up the harp instead. She likes the sound.

Her playing varies by her mood. When she's feeling happy, she'll wander around with her piccolo and play for Kaylee; she knows zir favourites, by now, the pieces that make zir lip twitch and foot beat in time. The ones that guarantee her next load of washing will be absolutely spotless, and mended, too.

(Kaylee may be her butler, but zie's still a dear friend. She's never been quite certain of their relationship - now, it's something of a mash between employer and employee, and child and confidante. Kaylee knows the ins and outs of Daniyah's habits, of everything she does, and Dan wouldn't have it any other way. Likewise, Daniyah knows a startling amount about zem, and while they don't tend to make a fuss over each other, there's an ease in their cohabitation that speaks of understanding.)

If she's sick of the piccolo, and wants some attention, she'll stuff her kazoo in her pocket and wander the few streets across to Zuri's. They don't like being woken at stupid hours, but if they're in their manic cycle, chances are they're awake anyway. So Daniyah will play whatever comes to mind - jazz, usually, because she likes jazz - and Zuri will grumble and groan and get a surprising amount of work done.

Zuri has, on more than one occasion, whistled a random ditty they like in full knowledge that Daniyah will pick up on it and repeat it back. They'll deny this, of course, but it's still true and it's still a constant, much like everything else in their relationship.

Her clarinet is for her 'I've just had to see a member of my family and I want to strangle someone' moods. This probably explains why she's out of practice; she's taken to avoiding Sadiks with the same dedication she gives her drinking. But she'll still pass Mecit on occasion in the SI:7 HQ, or Adalet when she goes to pester Rikke, or Heydar and his horrifically boring family when she wanders through the spice market on Sundays. If she's lucky, there'll be nothing but a nod. If she's not...

If she's not, it's clarinet time, and it doesn't matter who is in the house because she's not listening. Anyone could knock and she wouldn't care; the only thing that's important is blowing off some steam by making loud noises on an instrument she never, strictly speaking, formally learnt to play in the first place.

When she's feeling serene, she takes the cover off her harp, and starts to play. It's for her philosophical moods; when she doesn't want to think so much as exist, and her hands aren't itching for a bottle or a pipe. There's an easy peace to the motions that settles her mind and stops her worrying, quite so much, especially when she's tired and just wants to fall back into a familiar melody. It's almost like meditation, but at the time, she hadn't known what that was.

Her harp is for Zhaleh, because Zhaleh bought her the harp, and paid for a tutor, and pressed her fingers to the strings when all they could do was shake. So she plays for Zhaleh and for herself, but no one else.

Her flute, however.

Her flute is for everything. Her flute is fear, roiling anxiety curling in her gut. She'll sit on the roof and play random notes, until they form the pattern she wants and echo the harmonies in her head. It's anticipation, a steady staccato of tapped notes that follow her down the stairs as she yanks open the door. Sometimes it's followed by joy, sometimes her clarinet, but she can never tell until the door swings wide.

The warbling trills and quick arpeggios are delight, sliding and darting all over the place yet still retaining a smooth edge. They aren't hurried, just excited, overly so. Like if she doesn't capture the moment, out loud and in her head, it will fall away and she will never see it again.

Occasionally, her flute is self-deprecating, a mocking ornamentation after a minor scale. These days, it's rarer, but she still has moments where she breathes in frustration, because she's never who she wants herself to be and never who she thinks she is. But she can mock and laugh and scowl into the mouthpiece, because no one is listening and no one can judge.

But, after a while, someone does start listening, because Daniyah starts taking her flute with her when she visits. The case is tucked away in her tricksy little hold-all bag, where no one sees it unless she brings it out; just the way she likes it.

Rikke still doesn't see it. But sometimes Daniyah will stay the night, head tucked beneath Rikke's chin, and stare at the backs of her eyelids. Rikke is warm and hard and unyielding, except when the curve of her arm is just the right angle for Daniyah to curl into, anxiety subsiding with each breath.

It's those times, when everything is at peace, and her thoughts are on the border between panic and adoration, that she'll gently slip from Rikke's hold and slide to sit on the floor, just out of sight. But the quiet lullabies from her flute are audible, dancing through the room and out the window to mingle with the sounds of the night.

She plays whatever comes into her head, improvisation of the highest form. She finds Rikke's room is conducive to this; there's just enough constraint to form structure, and enough freedom to form song. So she plays, closing her eyes, and letting her knees relax cross-legged.

It's almost meditation, in the quiet hours of the morning. Music flows through her just as much as her chi does, and if her songs slowly begin to remain in major keys, then that is of course a coincidence.

Sometimes Rikke stirs. Rarely, if Daniyah has truly woken her (or perhaps she was never asleep in the first place) she'll shift, pillow coming to rest next to Daniyah's head. She never interrupts, never gives any indication of her thoughts, except to reach out with one finger and twirl a ringlet around it. And Daniyah plays on, eyes shut, heart feeling like it's about to fall from her chest.

Daniyah's music is personal, so deeply personal, that if one closed their eyes and just listened, they could say what she was feeling. So she plays for Rikke, open and vulnerable, and tries not to smile, because she can't do both at once.


End file.
